


Scholar's Mate

by Writegirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Jaime Lannister, Barristan Selmy Lives, Canon-Typical Violence, Conversations, Drunk Cersei Lannister, Episode: s07e01 Dragonstone, Eventual Romance, Explicit Language, F/M, I Mean They Still Haven't Met Yet, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jon Snow Knows Something, Logistics, Multiple Pairings, Non-Explicit Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Cersei Lannister, POV Daenerys, POV Euron Greyjoy, POV Jaime Lannister, POV Jon Snow, POV Original Character, POV Samwell Tarly, POV Sansa Stark, POV Tyrion Lannister, Rating May Change, Rewatching Season 7 For My Sins, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Tyrion is Not an Idiot, Unsullied Chambermaids, Varys is a plotting plotter who plots, Westerosi Politics, When You Realize Your Season 8 Fix-It Has To Start In Season 7, Worldbuilding, Yes you read that right, bear with me, season 8 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 03:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 144,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19123675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writegirl/pseuds/Writegirl
Summary: As the King in the North works to prepare his people for the threat beyond the Wall the Queen in the South struggles to maintain her power. Daenerys Targaryen, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, arrives on Dragonstone at the head of an armada ready to reclaim her family’s kingdom with fire and blood.The cold winds rise, and Death comes for them all.Chapter 17:“I hereby proclaim you Daenerys Targaryen, First of Your Name. Queen of the Rohynar, the Andals, and the First Men. Protector of the Realm. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”Season 7/8 Fix-It





	1. Dragonstone

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> This is probably the 542nd Season 8 fix-it out there, so thanks for giving it a chance. This story starts at the beginning of season 7, but will move further away from show canon as it progresses. There will be book elements, lore, and some characters, but you won't need to be a book reader to enjoy the story. This is what happens when I look at all my unpublished Otherwhen shorts and pieces from seasons 7-8 and stop fooling myself that I'm not writing a gigantic fix-it fic.
> 
> This will be a Jon/Dany endgame fic.

          Daenerys knelt and pressed her palm to the cold, wet sand beneath her. The salt air was heavy in her lungs, but no longer the clean spray of the open sea. Beneath the tang of salt, there was now sand, damp stone, and a hint of green, growing things. She allowed herself a moment of just being. Not Queen. Not Khaleesi or Breaker of Chains. Not even Mhysa. Just Daenerys. Over twenty years ago, she and her brother were spirited away from here when she was a handful of hours old, escaping Robert Baratheon’s wrath with Ser Darry, her wet-nurse, and a handful of loyal supporters to see them safe. Within five years only she and Viserys remained to begin their life of running; traveling from city to city, never stopping for more than a few months at a time. A life of hiding in foreign lands and praying that the Usurper’s assassins never found them. Over twenty years of exile, and finally, it was over.  


          Dragonstone.  


          The stronghold of her ancestors towered on the crags above, resembling great stone claws rising out of the island to tear at the sky above. The dark, bleak walls spoke of strength. It was not the perfumed gardens of Qarth meant to seduce with their beauty or the terraced palaces of Meereen that hid its rotten layers beneath a curtain of finery. Dragonstone was a fortress meant to withstand a siege from ground or sky. Sparse, forbidding, but more beautiful for its lack of artifice. Though she could not see it, she knew that in the distance, rising in a gentle slope from the bay, was Dragonmount.  


          “Welcome home, Your Grace,” Tyrion said quietly at her side.  


          Daenerys stood and clutched the sand in her hand. _Home._ How long had it been since she used that word?

          _I want to go home_ , she could barely remember saying those words to Viserys the day she met Drogo. A plea to return to a place she didn't even know was real. The vague memory of a house somewhere warm, the scent of lemons in the air. She rubbed her hands together, scraping the rough grains from her palm as she walked up the beach. Behind her, she knew more boats were landing, spilling her soldiers onto the shore, but she only had eyes for the castle above.  


          “My Queen!”  


          Grey Worm pointed his spear at the keep set deep into the cliffs. The gatehouse was carved into the stone itself, guarding the winding stair that led to the castle. There was movement there, and smoke poured from two of the chimneys.  


          She brought herself to her full height, face set. “We will see what kind of welcome it is.”  


          The Unsullied who already landed formed a line and marched on the gatehouse while Daenerys followed well behind with her council. At a word from Cracked Skin, she stopped. As the Unsullied continued forward the gates opened, and a small group of armored men exited. The Unsullied stopped and leveled their spears.  


          “We surrender!” the man in front shouted, laying his drawn sword on the sand. The eight men behind him did the same before backing away from their weapons.  


          “Is there anyone else on the island?” Daenerys shouted.  


          The oldest man pointed to the castle behind them. “A handful of servants stay in the keep along with a few guards. There’s a fishing village on the north coast, but no one else.”  


          “How many?” Grey Worm demanded.  


          The men looked between each other. “Perhaps thirty or so, in the castle” their leader responded. “Another twenty in the village, if they haven’t gone to Driftmark for the winter.”  


          “Your Grace, perhaps it would be best to allow the Unsullied to secure the castle before entering,” Tyrion suggested. “We can’t be sure my sister hasn’t sent an assassin among them.”  


          Daenerys nodded in agreement. She did not come all this way to die where she was born. _“See to it that the people are gathered, but unharmed,”_ she ordered her Unsullied. At a sharp word from Grey Worm, half the company lowered their spears while the other half moved forward. Her gaze went to the oldest man as she approached. His jaw was thickened with age, his nose blunt and brows heavy, but something in the shape of his face reminded her of Viserys. He wore his grey hair in a long braid that trailed over his shoulder, the ends still pale blonde. His eyes were light brown and reminded her of the great cats some of the masters of Meereen kept as pets. “What is your name, ser?”  


          “Donnar Thew,” he responded. His eyes roved over her face, a small frown wrinkling his brow. “I command the garrison at Dragonstone.”  


          She gave him a reassuring smile. “Ser Donnar. Please lead my men through the keep and serve as my ambassador to your people. Let them know that none will be harmed, so long as they do not fight.”  


          The cries of her children shattered the air as they flew overhead, heading for Dragonmount. The men threw themselves to the ground and cowered, all except Ser Donnar who’d only ducked down. He stared up at her children with wide eyes before turning to her. The confusion cleared from his brow. “My Lady?” he asked, voice filled with awe.  


          She drew herself up to her full height. “I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,” she told him. “And I have finally come home.”

  

          It took three hours for the Unsullied to be satisfied that every room, cupboard, closet, and outbuilding in the castle was searched. Three hours of sitting in the small gatehouse, watching as more and more of her soldiers poured into her family’s ancestral home. No matter how much she longed to be the first to step foot inside, she knew it was dangerous. Cersei could have hidden an entire battalion in the castle, waiting for her to land. All it would take was a single arrow, a single dagger, and her conquest would be over before it truly began.  


          “Your island is very cold,” Missandei said as her hands wrapped around a cup filled with beef broth. They were currently in the gatehouse’s common room settled at a wide fireplace. The inside of the gatehouse was as spare and unrelieved as its exterior, but the fire was warm enough for her to forgive anything.  


          “It is,” she agreed. As they traveled North the weather grew increasingly chill. She was grateful Tyrion suggested she have such heavy clothing made before leaving Meereen, otherwise, she and her people would be freezing. “The North of the country is colder, still.”  


          Her friend nodded. “There were books in the library of the Great Pyramid that spoke of the Westerosi North. They claimed it grows so cold that water falls frozen from the sky even in summer.”  


          “Snow,” Daenerys said the word wistfully. She’d never seen snow before. “Apparently the drifts can gather dozens of feet high in winter if Ser Jorah is to be believed.” Thinking of her bear took some of the joy from her. He should be here, by her side. Should be with her on this last part of her journey as he was at the beginning. _He lives,_ she reassured herself, fighting the hollow pain that settled in her chest when she thought of him. _He will find a way to return._ She did not know how long it took for greyscale to progress to the point of no return. The few times she and Viserys heard of it was long after the infected were dead, their bodies burned to prevent the plague from spreading.  


          Missandei took a careful sip of broth. “Do you think Tyrion is right? Do you think Cersei has sent assassins here to wait for us?”  


          “I don’t know.” It would be an intelligent thing to do. A single cook with poison or a serving girl with a sharp knife could do more damage than an army if used well. “Yara swung wide of the coast in the hope we could avoid patrols or watchtowers. With any luck, the Lannisters don’t know we’ve landed.” It would be a boon. Catching Cersei unaware would be the easiest way to win the war and limit casualties.  


          When Grey Worm came and told her it was safe, she couldn’t contain her excitement. Both Tyrion and Varis were waiting for them at the foot of the winding stair leading to the castle.  


          “Ser Donnar was truthful, Your Grace,” her Hand said as they walked. “The few serving men and women have been gathered in an inner courtyard, so the castle is completely empty.”  


          “Was anyone harmed?”  


          “No, My Queen,” Grey worm answered from behind her. “There was no one to fight. The soldiers inside are all old, grey men. The women were too afraid to do more than cry and go where they were told.”  


          Daenerys looked towards the castle. The narrow, winding stair was lined with Unsullied, shields locked and spears at the ready. As she began her climb, they began thumping their staffs against the rough stones, the sound growing until it echoed around her. Her children circled overhead, their screeches loud enough to drown out the spears on the ground. Her heart swelled at the sounds, let them wash over her until she felt she could take flight with her children.  


          It was a queen’s welcome.  


          Inside, the castle was dark, the passages narrow. Though she knew the keep was finished, the walls were rough-hewn, though there was a careful nature to it that suggested it was more affectation than nature. The outer halls were narrow in contrast to the size of the keep, and she remembered her brother once telling her the outer walls were thick enough to withstand dragonfire.  


          As they passed through a pair of tall, iron-bound doors into the castle proper the space opened. A standard hung opposite the doors, dark and curled with damp and dust. She recognized the Baratheon stag but was unfamiliar with the flaming heart around it. She grabbed the cloth and with a single tug sent it to the floor. The simple gesture made hot satisfaction curl in her chest. Never again would anything but the Targaryen dragon fly in Dragonstone.  


          At the end of the hall, another pair of doors stood, and two Unsullied opened them at her approach. Her breath caught when she saw what it was.  


          The throne room of Dragonstone was small but impressive. Winter sunlight slanted in through windows set deep in the walls. The room itself was narrow, but the ceiling towered overhead. She smiled when she could just make out the shapes of dragons twining in the dark stone, then looked down with sadness. Once, the dragon scales were gilded with gold and silver, their eyes precious stones; emeralds, rubies, and sapphires the size of a grown man’s thumbnail. Even from this distance, she could see the eye sockets were empty and the scales lacked any sheen of precious metals.  


          She focused on the centerpiece of the room. The dragon throne was as Viserys described it. _Like fire frozen into stone, Dany,_ he told her one night in Lys, before his stories became too difficult for him to tell. _Father said it rises from the very heart of Dragonstone, unbreakable as the island itself._ The throne was as harsh and beautiful as the rest of the castle. Once, glittering jewels decorated it as well; raw, uncut stones set into the many crevasses, so it glowed with multicolored fire. Now the spaces stood empty.  


          _When I have won the Seven Kingdoms, I will send to Meereen for artisans,_ Daenerys thought. She would call for gilders and have them come with everything they needed. The vaults of the Great Pyramid were filled with treasures from all over the known world, some so ancient no one could remember where they came from or what they represented, jewels and gold enough to slake any greed. She would use every resource in her power to restore Dragonstone to its former glory.  


          A whisper of wind from behind the throne drew her attention, and she followed a short corridor and winding stair to the heart of the castle. The Painted Table, the place where Aegon Targaryen plotted his conquest with his sister-wives, was a slab of dark stone that dominated the room that housed it. It was another of her brother's stories come to life, so much more than she was able to imagine as a child huddled around whatever candles they were able to scrounge to keep the dark at bay. She ran a careful hand over the smooth wood, fingers just brushing the surface. Several carved figures were gathered in its center, and she could make out lions and wolves, stags and falcons among their number as her heart beat heavy in her chest. She was standing where her ancestors once stood. In the place where her family’s dynasty began. If fate was kind, it was the place where she would continue it.  


          Daenerys stood at the head of the table and pressed her fingertips into the grooves. _I am home,_ she thought. She imagined Drogo at her side, what he would say about this strange place with its strange statues. A breath huffed through her nose and she imagined trying to talk him out of removing one of the large stone dragons from the parapets to take to Vaes Dothrak. Trying, because she knew she would have to concede. He would have been the first khal to cross the poison water, the first to make landfall on any part of Westeros. A single stone dragon to mark such a momentous occasion was the least she could agree to.  


          Thoughts of her lost husband stirred memories of her son, her poor Rhaego, and she shook herself free of the past. She could not afford to look back, not now. _If I look back, I am lost._  


          Movement caught her eye and she turned to Tyrion, examining a dragon carved into the wall, its mouth made into a nest for some seabird. The room was open to the elements, cold, salty air playing through it from the bay. Across that grey water, unseen, King’s Landing loomed.  


          Tyrion gave a small sigh as he turned and looked at her, and she couldn’t help the smile that tilted her lips. “We’ve arrived.”  


          “That we have.” His expression turned serious. “The rest of the Seven Kingdoms won’t be this easy, you know,” her Hand warned.  


          “I know.” She never believed the lies others told Viserys; that the people drank toasts to their health, that they but waited for a Targaryen to reappear and they would follow. She picked up a carved bird. House Arryn? “Allow me a few moments to hope.”  


          They stood in silence for long minutes before Varys appeared, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Ser Donnar in tow. “Your Grace,” the Spider said. “The servants are waiting in the inner courtyard.”  


          “Of course.” She set the marker down. This would be the first time she spoke to a gathering of Westerosi as their leader, their queen. Her stomach fluttered in an unusual show of nerves as they made their way through the corridors. She did not expect them to love her, not yet, and this first meeting would set the tone.  


          When the Unsullied gathered those who remained in the keep it wasn’t an impressive number. Less than fifty, only twenty proper soldiers counting the eight at the lower gatehouse, all of them somewhere between the ages of Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah. The rest were servants, none as young as herself or Missandei.  


          “When word reached us of what happened to Stannis, most fled,” Ser Donnar said as they approached the courtyard where the servants were held. Her Unsullied remained between them, but he didn’t seem offended. “Back to the Stormlands for most of them. A few went to Driftmark and House Velaryon.”  


          She stopped. “Velaryon?” Daenerys asked. She had never heard of such a house.  


          Ser Donnar blinked in surprise. “They’re of the old blood of Valyria, Your Grace. One of your father’s staunchest supporters.”  


          Not for the first time, Daenerys felt herself at a loss. Much of what she knew of Westeros she learned from her brother, and his primary concern was with the houses that betrayed them during the Rebellion. “I would like to meet these Velaryons,” she said, suppressing a surge of excitement.One house among many that might welcome her.  


          “Lord Velaryon’s brother, Aurane Waters, has been ruling in his stead until his nephew comes of age. He will probably swim here once he knows you’ve arrived.”  


          “If almost everyone fled, why did you remain?” Varys asked.  


          Donnar shrugged. “Most everyone who’s still here was born here,” he answered. “We were here when the Targaryens ruled Dragonstone, and when the Baratheons came they allowed those of us who bent the knee to stay.”  


          Daenerys fixed him with an expectant stare. “And will you bend the knee to me, Ser Donnar?”  


          The knight smiled, revealing crooked teeth. “My first oath was to the Targaryens who raised me up and gave me my knighthood, Your Grace. Give me a sword, and I would be more than happy to swear it to your service.”  


          She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face in answer. Ser Donnar was the first. She promised herself he would not be the last.  


          A chorus of hushed cries rolled through the enclosed space as the doors opened and her guards poured into the courtyard. Daenerys stepped into the cold sunlight followed closely by her Hand and Lord Varys at the center of the formation. Once they were satisfied that none posed a threat those in the center folded away, allowing her the first glimpse of her subjects.  


          Many of them sat on the ground in small groups, huddling together for warmth on the dark stones. All were as far away from the doors as possible, pressed into the center of the courtyard near a dry, ornately carved fountain. They wore the simple clothes of laborers, without embellishment or insignia, a collection of lined faces and graying hair.  


_An island of the old. Left forgotten at the edge of the world.  
_

          At the sight of Ser Donnar, a few seemed to relax if only slightly, their eyes going from him to her, no doubt trying to figure out what was happening. There was recognition on some of the oldest faces, recognition and barely contained curiosity. She gave them her warmest smile.  


          “I am sorry if you were alarmed by my guards,” Daenerys said slowly. “You need not be afraid. They wished only to secure the castle before allowing me to enter. I am Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen. After years of exile, I have finally returned home.” She let her gaze settle on each man and woman. “I am not here to harm any of you. My people will not harm any of you. I have returned to reclaim the Seven Kingdoms in the name of House Targaryen, and as such you are all under my protection from this day until your last day.”  


          Silence met her declaration.  


          Just as her heart was beginning to quail a square-jawed woman in the back knelt, head down. Those around her followed, and soon all of the servants in the courtyard had bent the knee. The soldiers looked to Ser Donnar, who stepped before her and knelt. Once he did, they followed suit. She smiled brightly and looked to Varys and Tyrion. Both men wore looks of satisfaction and not a little relief. 

          Behind her, Missandei smiled with joy. _It is only a few,_ she thought. _But it is a start._  


          Daenerys folded her hands near her middle. “Is there someone in charge of the keep?”  


          A man with silver-streaked red hair stood. “I am, Your Grace. Ser Alestor Chelsted of Crackclaw Point.”  


          She beamed at him. “Ser Alestor. I am in need of an accounting for the stores of the keep and a general understanding of its workings.”  


          He bowed. “Of course, Your Grace.”  


          “As for everyone else, please see to your regular duties. The rooms will need to be aired and linens provided.”  


          “And us, Yer Grace?” asked one of the soldiers.  


          She turned to the man. He wore boiled leather bearing the Baratheon stag. “Your name?”  


          He swallowed. “Lerris Harlaw.”  


          “Ser Harlaw. I would have you and your men work with my Unsullied to prepare the barracks, as well as familiarize them with the keep. Ser Donnar will be working with you as well.”  


          She turned to Ser Alestor. “Is there a solar where we can discuss how matters stand on Dragonstone?”  


          He nodded before straightening his doublet, the velvet slightly worn. “Certainly, Your Grace. If you would follow me.”

  

          Say what she would at the state of Dragonstone, Ser Alestor was a capable seneschal. His office in an eastern tower was neat and well organized. Unlike the rest of the keep, the walls of his study were hung with thick tapestries that depicted pastoral scenes of hunting and farming, a welcome oasis of color in an otherwise grey world. He wasted no time getting to the business at hand, opening several ledgers and going over the accounts of the island. Monetarily it was much as Tyrion and Varys suspected; Stannis left little in the way of coin or moveable wealth on the island when he traveled North. The weapons vault was nearly empty aside from daggers and other small arms, many of which needed mending, and the keep’s single forge had no raw materials.  


          “What are our stores like, Ser Alestor?”  


          The knight heaved a sigh. “When Stannis went North, he left a year’s worth of wheat and other provisions for those of us who stayed. We’ve been careful of it, and as people left the island it has stretched far beyond what was intended. We’ve also been able to put aside a good amount of food over the summer, including salted meats from the mainland and fish. The terraces provide enough food to feed perhaps 300 people if we go on short rations, but we cannot feed an army for any amount of time, Your Grace.”  


          “Once Lady Olenna returns to the Reach, that won’t be a problem.” The quicker Olenna Tyrell returned to Highgarden the better. She knew the food that remained from their journey would only last so long, and she needed a steady shipment of grain and forage by then.  


          Her worry must have shown through, for Alestor straightened. “The fishing is good, Your Grace. I’ve lived on the Blackwater my entire life, and never has the bay failed to provide. The villagers often bring up a catch every few days or so to trade for vegetables from the terraces. They have their own, of course, but we grow a better variety of foodstuffs.”  


          Dany stood and walked to one of the tower’s six narrow windows. Like the other rooms of the keep, there was no glass, only a carved wooden screen leaning against the wall. She stared down at the terraces, as he called them. They resembled broad, flat stairs marching towards the sea. “Are they natural or man-made?”  


          “When Stannis first came here, he was skinny as a rail,” Ser Alestor confessed. “After discovering Dragonstone didn’t grow much in the way of its own food he wrote to the Citadel, asking if they knew any ways to coax more life out of the soil. We’ve good earth, but the ground is steep and like to wash any crops away with the first rain. They sent plenty of seed, but nothing could withstand the storms. It was a man claiming to be from Asshai who built the first terrace, and Stannis commissioned the rest based on his design.”  


          The terraces ran down the island like long, wide stairs from the edge of the keep to the cliffs. She could see the green of growing vegetables, mostly turnips and the like, according to the seneschal. Two were filled with a late crop of barley and rye.  


          “Most of the rest of the island is grasses and brush,” Chelsted told her. “The ground is too rocky for much of anything else.”  


          She walked to another window to gaze at the Dragonmount that rose gently in the distance. It wasn’t the towering, steep-sided mountain she envisioned as a child, its summit hidden by clouds, spitting fire and smoke. The mount itself wasn't very tall at all, and lopsided as if part of it was torn away by some giant hand with dark sides devoid of any vegetation. She could just make out the shape of Drogon and Viseryon as they circled lazily. “And the volcano?”  


          “It’s been decades since we’ve had an eruption and that usually runs from the back of the island into the sea." He shrugged. If Dragonmount posed any danger, it was long past. "Though she does smoke every now and again.”  


          She turned her attention to the sweeping plains of the island. Daenerys turned back to him. “How long could the island sustain a herd of perhaps 40,000 horses?”  


          “Forty…” the seneschal cleared his throat. “I imagine there is enough grassland to sustain a herd of that size, for several weeks, Your Grace, but why would you need to?”  


          She steeled herself. “Among my army are 40,000 Dothraki and their horses.”  


          Ser Alestor paled. “Doth…Dothraki, Your Grace?” It was almost a whisper.  


          This was the first test. She knew how Dothraki were perceived in Westeros, and rightly so. She was glad she listened to Tyrion’s insistence that she wait to land her khalasar. “They are sworn to me, Ser Alestor,” Daenerys soothed. “They are no longer the herd of wild men, raping and pillaging their way through the world, though they remain one of the fiercest fighting forces I’ve ever seen.” She had yet to put her control of them to the test, but she doubted it would be challenged.  


          “Of… of course, Your Grace.” He looked down, hands trembling where they rested on his ledgers. “Will they require lodgings in the keep?”  


          “No.” A great deal of tension left his shoulders. “They are most comfortable among their own under the stars. They have a dislike of stone houses, as they call our castles.” When he said nothing in response, she walked back to him. “Something is on your mind, Ser Alestor.”  


          The seneschal worked his jaw for a moment, eyes darting to Spoiled Entrails near the door. “I worry about how you will be received on the mainland, Your Grace,” he said with care. “Dothraki and Unsullied… they are savages.”  


          _Gently,_ Daenerys reminded herself when she felt anger lick at her chest. “The Dothraki and Unsullied are the reason I stand before you today, Ser Alestor. If not for them, I would not have left Essos alive.”  


          He gave a small nod but did not relent. “The lords of Westeros will not follow you if you ride into the capital at the head of a legion of sav… of foreigners, Your Grace.”  


          “My Hand and Master of Whispers have said much the same, Ser Alestor, and I thank you for your honesty.” She would give the man that, at least. Honesty was a rare thing. She’d learned that lesson with blood. “Among my supporters are Olenna Tyrell, who brings the strength of the Reach, and Ellaria Sand of Dorne. It is not only foreigners who support my claim, I promise you.”  


          Some of his worry faded at the mention of Highgarden and Dorne, but not nearly enough for her liking. 

* * *

          Daenerys stood at the head of the Painted Table, fingers absently tracing the edges. For the first time in hours, she was alone, or as alone as she ever was with two Unsullied guarding her. Settling her people on Dragonstone was a delicate, exhausting dance. She was tempted to let others see to it but refused, despite Tyrion’s increasingly unsubtle suggestions as the day wore into evening. In Meereen she was content to allow others to see to the daily workings of the Great Pyramid and the city. Now, she felt it her duty to learn.  


          There was much to see to. The castle was far too large for the few servants that were left to see to its airing, and her Westerosi subjects were still fearful of the Unsullied. It was Missandei’s suggestion that teams of Unsullied be assigned to five of the servants and set to the many tasks that needed to be done. When it was first suggested she feared her soldiers would take it as an insult, but Grey Worm agreed without protest. “A castle, a city, a camp must be orderly,” he said simply before determining which of his men would be given over to the duty. Thanks to both his and Missandei’s efforts, a good number of her Unsullied were fluent enough in the Common Tongue that the system worked admirably. The servants found comfort in remaining in a group, and she hoped would learn they had nothing to fear from her people.  


          She dismissed Missandei hours ago, knowing her friend wished to explore the library. It was the first thing she did in Meereen as well, scouring the records of the Great Pyramid. Her friend’s quest for knowledge, her desire to learn and her ability to retain information once it was discovered were astonishing. Once Daenerys teased that she would send her to Oldtown to be a maester if she was not careful. It was Missandei who informed her that the Order of Maesters did not accept women into their ranks.  


          _Perhaps they would make an exception for her,_ she thought. What maester could claim mastery of nineteen languages, both in written and spoken form? That feat alone was miraculous.  


          Daenerys shivered as a draft swirled through the room, disturbing several piles of paper and sending the candle flames sputtering. The sun was long since set, taking with it the little warmth it provided. Thankfully, the servants directed her soldiers to one of the larger storage closets and a collection of wood screens designed to slide into place just outside the pillars, which cut off the worst of the wind and allowed the torches and braziers to do their work.  


          Still, the room was damnably cold.  


          She distracted herself from her discomfort by focusing on the past. How many times had Aegon done just as she was as he contemplated the great continent of Westeros? How long did it take him to put his plans into motion? Viserys could never tell her if he knew how long it took for Aegon’s dream to become a reality, and any information she could find only spoke of the date he landed, not how long he was in the planning.  


          There was a shuffle at the door, and Daenerys looked up. Her Master of Whispers and Hand were just inside, faces solemn. “Your Grace,” Varys bowed.  


          She raised a hand and gestured for them to have a seat. Even now she was unsure of the strange Essosi man that served her. Tyrion claimed he saved his life, rescuing him from the Black Cells and smuggling him out of King’s Landing. She knew that once he served as Master of Whisperers to her father and Robert Baratheon after him. Her instinct was to distrust any who served the House that deposed her own, but he had yet to do anything that would point to disloyalty. Without him, she would not have Dorne or Highgarden. If his plan was ultimately seeing her fail, she could not think how.  


          “How does everything stand, my Lords?” she asked as she settled into the chair at the head of the table.  


          “All the ravens in the rookery have been accounted for, and a guard placed on the doors, Your Grace,” Tyrion reported. “Cersei will not hear of our coming from Dragonstone.”  


          “The servants have been interviewed to my satisfaction,” Varys said in his soft tones. “None have come to the island in over two years, not since Stannis moved his armies North. All who remained were either born on Dragonstone or were left behind to keep it in the event of his return. All but one, Ser Gerald of House Gower, were sworn to Dragonstone before your family’s exile.”  


          “And why was he left behind?”  


          “He was gravely injured in the Battle of the Blackwater. In truth, it’s a miracle he survived. Stannis thought better of taking a one-armed, one-footed soldier with him to a battle beyond the Wall.”  


        Daenerys sucked in a breath. She knew something of the battle before the gates of King’s Landing, what Tyrion was willing to tell her. “Why would Stannis not send him home? Is House Gower in the Crownlands?”  


          “The Stormlands, and Stannis Baratheon was not known for his compassion,” Tyrion said. “House Gower declared for Renly before they declared for Stannis. Keeping Ser Garland meant keeping his brother’s allegiance. When word of Stannis’s death reached Dragonstone he refused to return to the mainland as it would mean bending the knee to Tommen.”  


          “So, he chose exile over bending the knee to a pretender.” She tapped the table. “After we take secure the Stormlands see to it Ser Gerald is given any assistance he needs to return to his family’s seat if that is his wish.” She glanced between her two lords. “And we are certain Stannis Baratheon is dead?”  


          “That is the belief of everyone here.” Tyrion stood and poured himself a glass of wine from the carafe on a side table. “They received a raven from Castle Black with the news. Stannis and his forces were killed by Ramsay Bolton in the North as he attempted to march on Winterfell.” He snorted. “Only a fool would march on the North in winter.”  


          “And Stannis Baratheon was no fool,” Varys added. “Something must have compelled him to march, though he knew the risk.”  


          Daenerys released a slow breath. It was a relief, to learn Stannis Baratheon died. The last of the Usurpers family gone to dust and unable to stop her was an unexpected gift of fate. “Compelled or not, it works in our favor.” She turned to Varys. “And the Houses Ser Donnar spoke of, House Velaryon and House Celtigar?” Her breath threatened to freeze in her chest as both men thought. Ser Donnar said the Velaryons were loyal to her father to the end. The prospect of more allies thrummed in the back of her mind since learning their names.  


          “The Celtigars will want to raise their banners to your cause,” Tyrion answered finally. “But may remain neutral. We took Lord Ardrian captive at the Battle of the Blackwater, and he’s been enjoying my sister’s dubious hospitality ever since. If the man still lives as her hostage, they will not endanger him needlessly.” He blinked. “They may take the risk anyway. I doubt they trust Cersei’s word at this point.”  


          “Lord Monford of House Velaryon was killed during the same battle,” Varys said. “His young son, Monterys, is Lord of Driftmark now. His mother serves as his regent though his uncle rules in all but name. Neither House has any love for the Lannisters, and their Valyrian blood makes you natural allies.”  


          “Two houses.” Out of the fifty that made up the Crownlands alone.  


          “Three,” Varys reminded her. “And more to follow. Lord Waylar is most eager to return to Sweetport and begin gathering his forces in your name.”  


          Daenerys closed her eyes with a grimace. In the hectic pace of the day, she’d completely forgotten about their guest. “How is Lord Waylar?”  


          Varys smiled. “Recovering, Your Grace, and pleased to be in Westeros again. Lord Tyrion and I have placed him to one of the better rooms and Lady Olenna’s maester is seeing to his care. He’s been given your deepest regrets that you’ve been unable to visit him but has been assured that you will do so at your earliest convenience.”  


          The little man Varys insisted they stop in Volantis to retrieve was hardly exemplary of Westerosi lords, she hoped. Her Master of Whisper was adamant about taking one of the fastest Ironborn ships once they were past the Smoking Sea to retrieve the man himself, lest their fleet draw unwanted attention. Her first meeting with the exiled Lord of House Sunglass had not gone well. Despite his bravado at their first meeting and her assurances that they shared a common cause, he was near sweating through his silks with fear and barely able to hold his stomach. Even then, he could not quite hide his disdain for the Ironborn, Dothraki, or the Unsullied, but his desire to return home and reclaim his birthright was stronger than any reservations. She’d hoped to spend the weeks of the voyage speaking with him and earning his trust, but he spent the entirety of the journey abed with seasickness.  


          Tyrion gestured to a section of the Painted Table that gouged inward above Blackwater Bay. “Waylar’s young cousin has been ruling Sunglass in his stead, a boy of barely eighteen. No doubt his people will be more than happy to have their lord returned to them.”  


          “No doubt.” Daenerys didn’t bother to hide the nervousness in her voice. She had common cause with Lord Waylar, but how long would that last? Would he betray her as soon as he was returned to his lands on Sweetport Sound? She pushed the thought away. If she focused on the ways her new allies could betray her, she would go mad before the campaign even began.  


          “Ser Donnar also spoke of House Bar Emmon,” Varys continued. “They were loyal to your father and remained loyal to Dragonstone in the years since the Rebellion. When Stannis raised his banners against Joffrey, Lord Duram supported his claim.”  


          “Do you think it wise to send messengers to these lords? Bar Emmon, Celtigar, and Velaryon?” She wanted nothing more than to send ravens to every corner of the realm, proclaiming her arrival and declaring herself queen, but both Tyrion and Varys counseled her to be cautious.  


          It was Tyrion who answered. “They are the chief Houses sworn to Dragonstone. They are the first place to start if you are looking for allies.”  


          And possibly the first to sell her to Cersei. “Send a message to House Velaryon, inviting the current regent to Dragonstone. We will wait until they reply,” she decided. “Perhaps they will be able to give a better assessment of the others.” She would use them to gauge how willing the Seven Kingdoms were to accept her claim. She sipped at her wine. “Have Lady Olenna and Ellaria made landfall?”  


          “Both have only recently arrived,” Varys reported. “Neither lady was willing to enter Dragonstone until they were sure it was safe, and that certain comforts could be seen to.”  


          Daenerys sighed. It seemed she was the only one in a rush to reclaim the Seven Kingdoms. She picked up quill and parchment and began writing. _“Deliver this to Ser Alestor,”_ she told Spotted Rat, who took the small note and started off at a trot. “Ser Alestor will decide which rooms they are to have if they have yet to choose and see that any effects they wish are delivered from the ships,” she said. “I’m sure the ladies have had enough time at sea and wish to enjoy at least a night on solid ground before we begin strategizing.”  


          Varys stood. “Very good, Your Grace. If you have nothing more for me, I’m afraid I must see to my work. I hope to be back within a fortnight.”  


          Daenerys lifted a hand in dismissal. She knew by now that asking the Spider for more details was an exercise in frustration. “See that you make it back, Lord Varys. I value your counsel.”  


          Her Master of Whispers bowed deeply and left, leaving a subtle hint of perfume behind. It never ceased to amaze her, that he maintained that scent throughout the entirety of their journey.  


          Daenerys spun her goblet idly as she examined the table again, drinking as she would. How long would it take her to reclaim the Seven Kingdoms? How much blood would be spilled in the doing, and how could she best avoid it?  


          When she set the goblet down Tyrion refilled it. “You’re brooding.”  


          “I’m thinking,” she countered as the wind whistled through the holes in the screen behind her.  


          “It amazes me that people actually believe they aren’t the same thing.” He refilled his own cup and took a seat closer to her. “The Velaryons and Celtigars will join your cause if just to spite Cersei. Remember, neither chose to bend the knee when they had the chance.”  


          “Because they knew Joffrey Baratheon was a bastard born of incest.” It wasn’t the incest that bothered her. She would be the grossest hypocrite if it did, but the thought of a queen trying to pawn her bastards off as royalty was another matter.  


          “Perhaps.” He tapped his goblet. “Or perhaps they simply never liked the thought of Cersei Lannister on the throne. Both presented their daughters as prospective brides for Robert. Both Houses are the old blood of Valyria. House Velaryon married into House Targaryen for centuries, passing princes and princesses back and forth. My father simply had the deepest pockets. And an army.”  


          Daenerys frowned. “So, they will follow me for petty revenge?”  


          “Don’t discount it,” Tyrion warned. “I personally know at least six people who died because of petty revenge, and another dozen who are most likely plotting to this day. Revenge brought you Dorne and Highgarden.”  


          “But will it guarantee their loyalty?”  


          “It will guarantee your survival.” He leaned forward. “In Meereen I told you that you were in the Great Game now, and the Game is terrifying. There is only one rule, Your Grace. You win, or you die.”  


          She felt a smile tilt her lips, but not one of joy. More of morbidity. “My family lost, and I am still alive.”  


          “Yes, you are,” Tyrion answered fondly. “Here, at your family’s seat. Ready to launch a campaign that will see my sister off the throne and likely dead within the coming weeks. Olenna and Ellaria know the price if you fail, and they will do everything in their power to keep that from happening.”  


          “And the others?” she asked as she took up her goblet. “Velaryon, Bar Emmon, and Celtigar?”  


          Tyrion shrugged. “All kept faith with Dragonstone, as they did during the Rebellion. Chances are good they will keep faith again.”  


          Daenerys nodded and stood, staring down the length of the Painted Table. The whole of Westeros, from the North to Dorne, was spread out before her. She had her children. She had two kingdoms, both with armies that were strong and not wasted during the War of Five Kings. She had her Unsullied and the Dothraki who were willing to brave the poison water, altogether an army over 100,000 strong. Aegon himself had less than 2,000 men when he landed at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. With three dragons and those men, he managed to conquer six kingdoms and bring them under a single monarch.  


          Her allies could rest if they were so inclined. Varys could play his games. She had an invasion to plan. Daenerys set down her goblet and gave her Hand a loaded look. “Shall we begin?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Some notes:
> 
> Dragonstone is actually a bit larger than depicted on the show. Based on maps it should be slightly smaller than the Isle of Man, so I split the difference and made it 100 square miles. It was large enough to keep their many dragons, including some that were feral and attacked other dragons and riders. It also has a volcano, which was where the Targaryen dragons nested.
> 
> Any recognizable dialogue or passages were borrowed from Martin. I've attempted to make sure it is italicized, but if I've missed something, please let me know. I'm unbetaed, so I'm sure a lot slips past.
> 
> Some background for the houses mentioned if you like:
> 
> [House Velaryon](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Velaryon)  
> [House Celtigar](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Celtigar)  
> [House Bar Emmon](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Bar_Emmon)  
> [House Sunglass](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Sunglass)  
> Again, thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed ^_^


	2. King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Remember Good Queen Margaery_

King’s Landing was not as he remembered it.  


Varys wandered the narrow lanes of the shanty town outside the walls, head down, shoulders slumped. He smelled of wood, salt, and unwashed man; a sailor on his way into the city from the docks, fresh from a voyage from places unknown. The small buildings tucked close to the walls seethed as he approached. Even with the sun barely risen the fish markets were crowded with thin-necked citizens and merchants, dockworkers and whores; vying for the best of the day’s catch, plying their trade, and going about their duties in the cold winter light. The number of men, women, and children standing on the docks or the narrow cliffs with lines in the water was startling. No doubt only a few would catch anything here, and what they caught could not be called fit to eat. Not with the city’s dead being dumped upriver.  


He passed through the Mud Gate with no resistance, another body in the stream that poured into the city proper as the sun peaked over the horizon. He examined the people as he went. Few lingered on the streets here, going quickly about their business with their heads down. More than a few had knives or short swords at their belts, something that would have been unheard of just two years before, their eyes ever searching the crowds for danger.  


In Fishmonger’s Square, the stalls that sold foodstuffs had outrageous prices. The smallest minnow went for quadruple what it had before he left with Tyrion. Shriveled apples filled some carts, while others boasted only a few gnarled carrots that were quickly snatched up. The larger, better-stocked stalls were bedlam, the people before them pushing and shouting as they tried to haggle for unrotted grain and meat. The square was filled with Goldcloaks in groups of five or more eyeing the crowds with their hands on their swords, bodies tense.  


The Master of Whispers stopped to remove a stone from his shoe, eyes going to the wall across from him. _Queenslayer_ was blazoned across it, and beneath the word a crude approximation of the Lannister sigil in charcoal that looked to have been scrubbed at. He emptied his shoe and carried on from Fishmonger’s Square, up the Muddy Way, and into King’s Landing proper.  


No, King’s Landing was not as he remembered it. Starvation was carving its way into the population; he saw it in the gaunt faces and hollow cheeks of children and the brittle hair of their parents. Poverty was there as well. The common folk of the Landing always held themselves slightly above those of the rest of Westeros. After all, they were blessed with being in the capital, a hub of trade and culture. Fine linens could be had for a fraction of what they went for elsewhere in the kingdom, and the people were happy to buy what they could afford to better emulate their rulers. Now their clothes were torn and ragged, their eyes empty as they shuffled through dirty streets.  


He wound his way through the city, up the Street of Steel until the buildings began to thin, and the charred remains of structures led him to the Sept of Baelor. He skirted wide of the square and perched among the ruins on Visenya’s hill to get a better look at the destruction. There was nothing left of the once proud building but the lower steps. A gaping crater tore into the earth; the edges melted with the heat of the wildfire used to destroy it all that remained of the building proper.  


The square before the destroyed sept was filled with people, all of them watching some spectacle. Varys made his way down and joined them, curious.  


On the cracked steps of Baelor, a group of perhaps thirty men and women knelt, short-handled whips in hand. They flagellated themselves as they prayed, and even at his distance, Varys could see blood fly in the waning sunlight as the crowd around them watched. Some knelt on the outskirts of the group and muttered prayers along with them. For such a large gathering it was strange that he could see no Goldcloaks. There were only the people, watching as their peers prostrated themselves before their gods.  


“We beg the Mother for mercy,” their droning chorus sounded. “We beg the Father for deliverance. We beg the Crone for wisdom.” Each sentence was punctuated by the slap of leather against flesh.  


Outside the strange calm that enveloped the remains of Baelor, the city continued to surprise him.  


“Sister fuckers,” a man spat as a group of three Goldcloaks passed, hand on the hilt of a curved knife. If the Goldcloaks heard (And there was no way they couldn’t, not with how loudly the man said it) they ignored his words. Varys kept his expression disinterested, though his brows wanted to rise. The City Watch was not known for letting such disrespect slide. He looked at the man again. He was one of several, all of them armed, all of them looking to do violence. The three would be sorely outnumbered if they attempted to retaliate, and all parties knew it.  


There were other walls containing messages, ranging from _Remember Good Queen Margaery_ to _Brotherfucker._ While there were few on the more frequented streets the back alleys were covered with them: images of lions fucking each other, a golden rose trampled under their feet. Some were pleas to the gods for deliverance or to punish those who worked against them. One, quite well done by someone who’d obviously seen the queen, was a depiction of her bloody head on a pike.  


Things were better than he could have hoped.  


The Spider turned onto the Street of Sisters hours after dark, eyes downcast beneath an oversized hood. His heavy leathers were bundled in a sack beneath his arm, revealing the worn, rough-spun shirt and trousers beneath. He entered one of the smaller boarding houses, the cracked sign above the door depicting a dancing woman in blue, the lit lantern below it proclaiming there was still a vacancy. Inside there was no real common room to speak of, only a single table in front of a narrow, unlit fireplace. Noises came from a short hallway that led to the kitchen.  


He took another step inside and a low growl brought him up short. A brindled hound slunk down the hall, head low. The beast was large and looked half starved, its eyes fixed on him for its next meal.  


“If ye’ve no coin, see yerself back into the streets!” A woman called from the back. Heavy footsteps followed the declaration, marching his way.  


Varys lifted his head when the proprietress came to a stop, just enough for her to see his face.  


Sarai was one of his little birds, his first when he came to King’s Landing years ago. She was a child then, all knobby knees and hollow cheeks. The kind of child who could disappear in a crowd; easily overlooked and easily forgotten. The best word to describe her was plain: plain brown hair, plain brown eyes, plain skin. There was nothing to distinguish her from a thousand other children, and that made her invaluable.  


Her brown eyes took him in, and she snapped her fingers twice. The dog gave a low whine and turned away, heading back to the kitchen. “There’s a table if you’ve the coin,” she said with a toss of her head, no recognition in her eyes.  


_Good girl._ He lifted a pouch and shook it.  


She nodded and headed towards the kitchen. “I've no ale, only clean water.”  


“And a room, if you have it,” he said, his voice still in the mixed accent of a Westerosi who’d spent too much time in Pentos.  


“Room’s three silver stags.”  


His eyebrows went up at that, and not as an act, but he dug the coins out and handed them to her. She gave them a shrewd eye before pocketing them and huffing back to the kitchen.  


Varys settled at the table, grateful it afforded a clear view of the narrow staircase that led to Sarai’s four rentable rooms. Not that it mattered. There were no sounds from above stairs indicating she had any patrons.  


When she came back, she had a flagon of water and a bowl of stew and placed both of them in front of him before sitting down.  


“We thought you dead,” she said in her husky voice.  


He gave a small laugh. “I imagine so.”  


Sarai folded her arms at his tone. “The talk around the Landing was you helped the Imp escape or some such nonsense. The Queen near tore the city apart looking for him. Locked down the bay, had every horsecart and bag of meal checked. Had a pretty copper out for his head. Yours, too, some said.”  


That gave him pause. “I don’t suppose you’re looking to collect?”  


She sucked a breath between her teeth. “As if I’d deal with that brotherfuckin’ whore.” She shuddered. “I’ve dealt with whores before. Good people. But none of them’d fuck their twin.”  


Good to know. His gaze went to the kitchen. The hound was in the doorway, gnawing on a large bone, watching him. “Your pet is new.”  


Sarai half-turned in her chair. “Pate’s a good boy. Had a few troubles what with the shortages and all.” With her turned he could see a new scar, shiny and pale, starting below her left ear and trailing down her neck into her collar.  


At the sound of his name the dog lifted his head but settled quickly when it seemed he wasn’t needed.  


Varys ate several spoons of soup. It was thin, the meat stringy, but he counted himself lucky she could feed him at all. Her own cheeks were hollow, though not as much as many he’d seen. Sarai always was careful of her coin. “Have you had any word from the others?” He asked when the bowl was half empty.  


“Some of the little'r ones’uv disappeared since you vanished. I’d say they was snatched up by the whoremongers if the Sparrows hadn’t run them all out. Thought that someone was using them. Someone inside the Keep. Didn’t want to look too close, draw attention to myself.”  


Varys frowned. “I imagine Qyburn found my network very useful.”  


“Cunt,” Sarai muttered. “Seen one or two about. They still use some of your old routes. He gives them something, I think. Makes ‘em dull-eyed and strange. Been keeping my distance from the whole thing. They don’t know about me anymore.”  


“And I’d like to keep it that way.” He leaned forward. “Now, what else have you heard?”  


Unfortunately, not much more than he had. With winter upon them, much of the trade was slowed, her normal customers either tucked away for the season or avoiding King’s Landing all together, so news from the realm was scarce.  


“There’s been talk of dragging Cersei out of the Red Keep,” she told him with a snort. “Mostly just angry folk, but it’s been there. They keep saying the Sept was an accident, but only a fool would believe it. The City Watch has broken up more than a few riots. It’s worse than when Joffrey was king. When the Sept went, the Reach stopped sending grain…stopped sending anything, really. From what the smallfolk say the lords in the Crownlands are doing much the same. No food to spare with winter here, have to look after them and theirs. The Faith tried coming back into the city, now that the Sparrows are done for, but she had the septons and septas run out. The right spark and the whole place’ll go up.”  


Varys finished his stew. “I don’t suppose there’s anything else you think I should know, my dear?” he asked as he stood. The promise of a bed was tempting after such a long day, and another waited for him tomorrow.  


“The Iron Fleet was here, not two days past.”  


That gave him pause. “The Iron Fleet?”  


She nodded. “Had to have been a hundred ships at least. Heard the one leading ‘em had an audience with the Queen.” She shook her head. “Bitch must be daft, trusting the Ironborn. They’re like to knife you the minute your back is turned, and skin your pockets while you’re bleeding. The drunkest idiot in Flea Bottom knows that.”  


He frowned. That was something he should have heard in the streets. “There was no talk of an armada of Ironborn.”  


“They tried to claim it was some Essossi trader fleet, come to see about bringing grain and the like before we all starve. Kept them way out in the bay, but I saw some of the sails. Only Ironborn fly the kraken, no matter what the queen tries to say.”  


Varys pulled out a gold dragon. Sarai took the coin and it disappeared into the purse at her hip. “I don’t suppose you’ve maintained your contacts?”  


“One. One got it in the Bread Riots. Fever took the other a few months ago.”  


That was a shame. He would have to see to two of the messages himself, then. He passed her a small scroll sealed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. “Summon your contact. Have them see this to Hayford Castle, to the hands of the castellan there, Lord Daemon, and no other.”  


The scroll vanished into a sleeve as Sarai stood and set a key in front of him. “Room’s first one on the right. Let me know if you need water for washing.”

He gave her a grateful smile and stepped away. He was at the bottom of the stairs when he spoke again. "And Sarai?" 

She looked up from where she was wiping down the table. 

"I suggest you leave the city. Tomorrow. As early as you can manage it. Can your contact find you if you're not here?" 

Her expression didn't change. "Course. I'll find them." 

"Good." He gave a pointed look at her sleeve. "Do not return until you see that sigil flying on the walls." 

It was near dawn when Varys made his way back to the docks, footsteps heavy with sleep. He followed the crush of people between the squat houses and didn’t stop until he made it to the group of men loading cargo onto a Pentoshi slip. He endured their backslapping and jokes about this Westerosi sweetheart, bit back a retort as the quartermaster informed him that his pay would be docked for the hour he was late and hefted a bundle of tanned hides to carry aboard, grumbling about the tight pockets and tighter arsehole of his employer.  


In the hold of the _Good Hart_ he set the bundle down and continued to the very back of the space to a small room where the captain waited.  


“Get what you wanted?” The skinny man asked when the door closed behind him.  


“Indeed.” Varys peeled out of his Westerosi clothes, glad to be free of the scratchy, ill-made cloth, and began bathing with the water provided. He scrubbed away the glued-on beard and dirt that obscured part of his face, uncaring of his audience. Captain Torin had seen him in worse conditions than this. His personal favorite was an amusing time when he was required to dress as a Lyseni whore. It was while he was still young and capable of such things, and the face paint took ages to scrub away. Unfortunately, Lyseni perfumes were persistent, and it took near a week for the faint odor of peach blossoms and musk to stop haunting his every step. In short order, he was back in his normal robes, the information he’d gathered tumbling through his mind like dice.  


“We set sail as soon as we’ve loaded.” The captain’s face turned mulish. “I’ve checked my books. This is a thin haul. I was promised a full hold for my troubles.”  


Varys gave the man a flat stare. “Magister Illyrio always pays his debts, Captain. He will see you fully compensated for any inconvenience or loss you’ve endured.”  


The Pentoshi tried to meet his gaze but relented. “Back to Dragonstone then, m’lord?” Torin asked.  


Varys settled on the small bed set into the wall, his one luxury. “Not yet, Captain. Have you ever sailed to Rook’s Rest?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Chapters will not normally be this fast in coming. This was originally part of chapter one, but I felt it was getting overlong, so decided to separate it. I will be aiming for weekly updates, so long as I can keep up my pace ^_^


	3. The Red Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into what's happening inside the Red Keep. For anyone who is trying to keep track, this chapter is two days post Daenerys landing at Dragonstone.

          Cersei stared at her brother as he slept beside her, eyes drinking him in. He looked younger, she mused. The lines that marred his face smoothed in sleep. Like this, she could pretend he was once again her golden lion, uncaring of anyone or anything in the world but her.  


          It wasn’t her first choice, to have him that night. She spent hours thinking on it, contemplating what he would say, how he would react before deciding to send for him under the guise of discussing the city’s defenses. Their conversation from three days prior played again and again in her mind as she waited. Her question of if he was afraid of her, and his question in return.  


          _Should I be?  
_

          _Yes._ She almost said the word but managed to hold it back. Even as she swallowed it, she knew he heard it. Knew it frightened him, no matter if he would admit it. Her once brave brother. The one who jumped from the battlements of Casterly Rock into the sea below, uncaring of the rocks or the waves. Who fought in the vanguard of every battle and slaughtered their enemies, afraid of her.  


          He should have taken their father’s suggestion and retired from the Kingsguard. She should have pressed him to do it, but she hadn’t. All she could think was how easy it would be for them without the threat of Robert appearing unannounced at any time. How if he retired his white cloak a wife and child wouldn’t be far behind. A wife that wouldn’t be her. A child that wouldn’t be theirs. Their father wouldn't rest until Jaime had wedded and bedded some Westerland noble to carry on the Lannister name. He might have dissolved Tyrion's marriage to Sansa and married the little slut to Jaime to secure the North through him. The thought of her brother touching that girl made rage spark in her chest and words from her childhood echo through her mind _...younger, more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear..._

         She couldn’t forget the way Jaime looked at her when he entered the throne room after returning from the Riverlands. As if she were some villain from a song; his eyes glittering, his jaw set, as if this was her plan. As if she wished to climb to the throne on the bodies of their children. He wasn’t there when she needed him. Wasn’t there to save her from the humiliations of the High Sparrow and his army of fanatics so she was forced to save herself. She simply put one of their father’s first lessons into practice: if you have a weapon, no matter what it was, use it.  


         Was she supposed to forget what he told her all those years ago when he came crying to her about Aerys and his wildfire? What good would that have done? It was there, the Seven knew how many gallons of it. There was no way to move it safely, no way to get rid of it. The only people who knew how to dispose of wildfire were just as likely to set it off and then everything would have been for nothing. Better to let it sit, she argued. Sit in its cellars and attics, sit in the sewers where it could do no harm.  


         Sit, until she found a use for it.  


         He was still wary when he came to her, watching her as he would a lioness he came upon in the Westerland hills. Then his paltry complaints when she knew he was half-hard the moment she reached for him. As with all men, the easiest way to control Jaime had always been with his cock. The second she dropped to her knees she knew she had him. It was easy to fall into it, to remember what it was to feel.  


         He still tasted the same. Still knew where to kiss and where to suck. How to drag his teeth along her neck in the way that made her arch her back just so. He still felt the same moving inside her. Jaime was all she had left now, and she was loath to part with him.  


          _A dynasty for us, then._  


         She let her gaze wander down Jaime's body in the dim light, his outline clear against the white linens on her bed. He was more muscular now, the weight he lost sitting in Robb Stark's prison returned to him; so unlike Robert’s unsightly bulk and Lancel’s effeminate slenderness. The golden hand was tucked beneath a pillow, so his deformity was well hidden. He was clean-shaven the way she preferred, though his hair was too short for her liking. In the darkness, she could almost pretend it was years ago. Pretend that the wars and the pain were nothing more than a horrible nightmare. Until she remembered Joffrey’s face, purple and bloated as he stared up at her. Myrcella’s delicate beauty waxy in death. Tommen’s boyish features cracked like an egg.  


         Cersei slipped out of bed and walked to the stand in the corner of her chambers. The water in the pitcher was cold but served its purpose as she washed Jaime’s spend from her center and thighs before sliding into a silk robe.  


         It was late, well past the hour of ghosts, and she could not sleep. It didn’t matter how fine the linens or how soft the mattress. She hoped Jaime could exhaust her, but even he was unable to tire her enough to stop the frantic pacing of her mind. Out there, somewhere, her enemies plotted. Daenerys Targaryen and her fleet were rushing to meet them. Sansa Stark and her bastard brother had reclaimed the North. Olenna Tyrell and Ellaria Sand were circling like vultures. All of them, waiting. Waiting for her to let down her guard. Waiting for her to make a mistake so they could tear into her like jackals and pluck the flesh from the Lannister dynasty.  


          _With Tyrion there to pick the choicest parts,_ she thought as she poured herself a glass of wine. Tyrion. She could still remember how happy their mother was when Maester Creylen told her she was with child. She remembered touching her mother’s stomach and asking how the baby got there before stating boldly that she would carry no child but Jaime’s. Only Septa Lewellyn and her mother were there to hear her declaration, the Septa correcting her gently while her mother’s eyes clouded with worry. Then later, the hours of screams as their mother fought to give birth to that monstrosity. The way she and Jaime clung to each other, not knowing what to do. Lighting candles in the sept and praying to the Mother, not truly understanding the danger she was in, just wanting her to be out of pain. To be _safe_.  


          She should have smothered the little demon the night he was born, squalling in his crib while her mother grew cold in her birthing bed. Avenged Joanna Lannister the way her father didn’t, and her brother wouldn’t, instead of letting the cancer grow and grow until it tore her family apart. First Myrcella, ripping her from the safety of her arms and giving her to the Dornish. Then Joffrey, her poor boy. She would never get the sight of him choking on poison, his eyes bloodshot, face purple, out of her mind. Then father. The great Tywin Lannister found riddled with crossbow bolts in his privy, the body of a whore cooling in his bed. It didn’t matter how many tongues she threated to sever, did sever. Within a fortnight all of King’s Landing knew the truth. If she were a betting woman, she would place that on Olenna’s shoulders. That pit viper would revel in bringing such a great man so low, even in death.  


          Everything circled back to that stunted little monster. If not for Tyrion, Joffrey would be alive. If not for Tyrion, Oberyn Martell would still hold the leash on his whore and her brood. If not for him, none of her troubles would have come to pass and she would not have been driven to such extremes. If not for the loss of her father, she wouldn’t have lost control of Tommen. She wouldn’t have watched Margaery sinking her claws into her son and would not have been forced to trust the High Sparrow to curb the Tyrell influence at court. 

          Cersei grimaced in memory. Margaery, the scheming cunt, managed to save herself. Managed to play the Sparrow’s games and free herself of their clutches with her dignity intact. She mouthed their prayers and played pious and meek, the Rose of Highgarden turned into a pretty flower stripped of its thorns. The High Sparrow had not allowed that for her. He never would. She saw it in his eyes when he had his minions drag her into the bowels of the Sept. Tyrion Lannister was a murderer. Jaime Lannister was a kingslayer, an oath breaker, a warrior without a sword hand, but Cersei Lannister was the last untouched scion of her father’s house. The last part of Tywin Lannister’s legacy that stood strong against the tide and it could not be allowed, not if he wanted to solidify his authority. How better to show Westeros how powerful the High Sparrow was, how better to strike fear into the rest of its lords than to parade Cersei Lannister, former queen, before them? To bring her low and drag her through the muck with the rest of the rabble? Humbling Margaery was nothing. Her crown was too new, but Cersei? For nearly twenty years only her husband, then her son could claim more influence. How powerful he must have felt when she agreed to play his game and walked naked through the streets. How sure of his victory as she was shorn and spat on, ridiculed and mocked.  


          She hoped that in the last seconds of his life before the wildfire burned him to a cinder, he knew she won.  


          Cersei drained her glass and sneered at the empty decanter before striding to the door. She opened it wide, uncaring who saw Jaime in her bed. She was the queen; she would do as she liked.  


          The red-haired chambermaid dozing in the corner leaped to her feet at the sound of the door and scurried forward. “Yes, Your Grace?”  


          “Wine,” she ordered, thrusting the empty container at the girl. “An Arbor gold this time.”  


          The girl curtsied, freckles standing out like drops of blood on her pale skin as her eyes darted to her brother sprawled out in her bed. “At once, Your Grace,” she was running almost before she finished speaking.  


          Cersei turned her eyes to Ser Strong, whose gaze followed the girl down the hall. Two months had passed since Septa Unella. It was always good to reward those loyal to her. “Once she stops moving so quickly, you can have her,” Cersei said before closing the door.

 

          The next morning, she wished she’d forgone that last pitcher of wine.  


          “What do you mean, they are refusing to appear?”  


          Lord Langward had the good sense to be afraid if the sweat dotting his brow was any indication. His eyes darted to Ser Strong before returning to her. “Many of the lords expressed…concern…Your Grace,” he said slowly. “Travel through the Crownlands has been perilous in the last month. Both Lord Edgerton and Lady Rambton were set upon by bandits while returning to their seats after your coronation. Lady Rambton has yet to recover from her injuries.”  


          She fought the urge to grind her teeth as her headache spread behind her eyes. “’ Injuries’,” she repeated. “A politic way of saying the lady was raped by brigands on the road.” She didn’t know if it was true, but it didn’t matter. The woman was set on by thieves. If she escaped being raped it was a miracle.  


          Langward’s pasty skin paled even further, his eyebrows resembling two large caterpillars struggling to stay perched on his face. “As you say, Your Grace.”  


          Cersei stared at the man on her Small Council. Lord Ashtin Langward was a fat, middle-aged man who resembled nothing so much as a pale toad, with his bald, pockmarked head and sweaty jowls. The dark green of his velvet doublet only added to the effect. He was Master of Coin, but as the Crown had little in the way of coin, she set him to keeping the Crown’s stores in order. So far, he’d done an abysmal job. If it wasn’t for the thousand other troubles she had to deal with, she’d strip him of office and find a replacement. She worked her fingers free of where they’d clenched on the arm of her chair. “And Lord Hogg and Cargyll’s reason for refusing to provision the capital as ordered? Or are the brigands responsible for the missing tonnage from their last grain shipment?”  


          It was Lord Marrack Cressey, Master of Laws, who answered. “Both lords have sent letters stating they have provided the maximum amount of 20% of their current stores to the capital, Your Grace,” he said, his voice the deep grumble of a settling mountain. “Along with receipts from their shipments dating back to the early days of the War of Five Kings. Any more, and they risk starving their smallfolk if the winter lasts longer than three years.”  


          “Need I remind these lords that part of the reason their harvests were light is their smallfolk were clogging the streets of King’s Landing when they should have been in the fields?”  


          Quiet met her question. _Fools,_ she thought. _All of them fools, and I am left to rule this country alone._ “Check whatever records they’ve sent against the Royal Granaries,” she ordered. “If their records are correct, that will be the end of it.” _For now._ She fixed her Master of Coin with a hard stare. “In the meantime, I expect both Lord Hogg and Lord Cargyll in the capital within the fortnight.”  


          Lord Langward bowed his head. “I will send the ravens immediately, Your Grace.”  


          She turned to Qyburn’s seat. Her Hand was usually the first man in the chamber, but today he was absent. One of his little birds sent her a message that morning, expressing his regret at being unable to attend due to an unforeseen circumstance, and that he hoped to explain once he returned to the keep. “Is there anything else that requires Our attention?”  


          “There is still the question of who will serve as Master of Ships, Your Grace,” Ashtin hedged. “The candidate is here, but without the Lord Hand-”  


          “If the appointment requires the presence of the Lord Hand then it will have to be tabled until he can appear.” She was beginning to understand why Robert avoided his Small Council meetings if this was the stupidity he had to deal with. “Anything else?”  


          Lord Cressey answered. “Several Houses in the Stormlands have written of raids by Dornishmen in the past weeks. The raiders retreat into the Marches with cattle and grain. The largest occurred at NIghtsong. The granaries were emptied, and what couldn’t be carried off was put to the torch.”  


          Cersei grit her teeth. “The marcher lords and the Dornish have been at each other’s throats for centuries. It’s not surprising they would attack with winter setting in.” Before Cressey could bother her with more nonsense she stood. “My Lords,” she said quickly, uncaring if they made their feet before she left the room, Ser Strong following behind.  


          _So, now the Dornish are moving,_ she thought as she stalked through the Red Keep. She’d waited for Ellaria to make her move. Wondered how the bastard of Hellholt would begin her assault. Her opening blow was devastating, but it was the only one she could give. Taking Myrcella from her was hasty, something an intelligent enemy would save for a killing blow. The Marches were nothing. Robert might have cared about an assault on his bannermen, but she cared little and less about what happened to Stormlanders who refused to answer her son’s call to arms.  


          Still, she had to at least maintain appearances. She would send a letter to the current lord of Nightsong, assuring him that the crown would address his loss and bring those who attacked his lands to justice, as well as deliver a sizeable amount of grain to replace that which was stolen. That such a delivery would never arrive could always be explained away. After all, these were troubled times.  


          Thinking of troubles took her thoughts back to the brigands that attacked her lords on the road outside King’s Landing. She would have to call for the captain of the City Watch and tell him to extend his patrols outside the city. She couldn’t have lawlessness reign so close to her capital. If the Gold Cloaks were unable to handle the problem, she would have to call on the Crownlands, something she wanted to avoid. Calling the levies meant seeing to their feeding, and the city stores were already dangerously low for so early in winter. Her own army was busy dealing with upstarts in the Riverlands spurred on by the last stand of the Blackfish.  


          And Euron had yet to deliver on his promise.  


          _A great gift,_ Cersei mused as she walked. What was a great gift to a filthy peasant from the Iron Islands? The only gift she wanted was Sansa Stark’s head next to Tyrion’s, delivered on a bed of crimson silk. She would have that monster’s head cast into a gold chamber pot so she could piss and shit on him every day for the rest of her life. Sansa’s would look perfect decorating the Traitor’s Walk. She wanted that bitch’s bright Tully hair unfurled like a banner in the wind so everyone could see what happened to those that raised their hands to Lannisters. Wanted to watch the crows peck out those sky blue eyes she used to seduce Tyrion into murdering her son.  


          _The best weapon you have is the one between your legs. Learn to use it._ Sansa looked so scandalized when she told her that, the little Northern dove; cheeks red and eyes brimming with embarrassment. Tyrion claimed he never took the girl, that she remained chaste as the Maiden. What tricks did the girl learn to get their whoremongering brother under her spell without ever opening her legs? Her spies said the girl spent time with Baelish, and Tyrion’s whore served as her chambermaid. Perhaps she learned her trade from the Lorathi.  


          _Never trust a Greyjoy._ She would wait to see what this great gift he promised was, and if it wasn’t to her liking she would order Ser Strong to tear his head off so her lords would know what happened to those who made empty promises to the Crown.  


          _Enemies,_ she seethed as she entered the throne room. _Enemies everywhere. And where there are no enemies, there are fools taking their place._


	4. Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been giving me fits. I have rewritten this dang thing four times -_- and I am not pleased with it, but I am posting it because I am tired of dealing with it and I want to move on to the rest of the story, so I apologize in advance. It is very long, ~10,000 words, and every time I tried to cut it down it grew by a frickin page.
> 
> Storyline wise takes place between episode 1 and 2 of season 7.

          Jon stared into the fireplace in his solar. The fire had long since burned down on the grate, and only embers remained. For over an hour now he told himself he would put on more logs, but he had yet to find the desire to stand and do so. Instead, he found his eyes wandering the walls of the room before they returned to trace the snarling direwolves etched into the stones of the mantle again and again.  


          It was strange, thinking of this room as his. In his mind it still belonged to his father, for all there was little of Ned Stark in it. In the days after they retook Winterfell anything that came from the Dreadfort or bore the flayed man was broken down and used for kindling at Sansa’s request, and he couldn’t find it within himself to disagree. A good portion of the chairs and side tables were dragged from the cellars or else freshly hewn and still smelled of sap, not the well-worn pieces of his memory. The desk had graced the solar for as long as he could remember, most likely for as long as his father could remember before him. The dark, scarred wood was blackened by smoke, a few of the details of the carved direwolves at its feet were chipped away, but it was something his father touched.  


          The tapestries that once lined the walls detailing some of the greatest moments in Stark history were gone, too damaged by smoke and mold to be salvaged. The ledgers were mostly blank, waiting to be filled with Winterfell’s accounts and records. The bare few that survived Ramsay’s destruction occupied the highest shelves of the lone surviving bookcase, their pages curled from moisture and soot. Some days he would open them and stare at the neat columns and rows written in his father’s careful hand.  


          The sound of men-at-arms training made his muscles clench in memory and a half-formed desire to join them that he pushed away. It was a rare thing over the past month that he was able to find a moment to simply sit. To be Jon Snow and not Jon Snow, King in the North. He wondered how many times his father did just this. How many times Ned Stark sat in his solar away from his wife and his sons and daughters. Away from Maester Luwin and all the responsibilities that came with being Warden of the North and did nothing.  


          Warden of the North. As a young boy, his father’s title fascinated him. How many times had he pretended as a child that it was his? Not with Robb. Not after the first time his brother said, without malice or cruelty, that he couldn’t be warden because a bastard couldn’t be lord of Winterfell. He would sit on the ramparts he denied climbing and stare out at the place that was home but not and imagine what it would be like to actually belong.  


          In his childhood dreams Robb always was there; he could never imagine a world where his brother wasn’t at his side, but Robb was younger, somehow. Sometimes Jon imagined his mother had been Eddard Stark’s first wife, an unfortunate woman who bled out on her birthing bed barely a year into their marriage. Others, he and Robb were twins, brought into the world together. However it happened, one day when he was deemed ready Eddard Stark would pass Ice to Jon Stark and he would be proclaimed Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North while his brothers and sisters cheered him on, their father’s smile worn but proud.  


          Never, in even the dizziest imaginings of his childish mind, would he have made himself a king.  


          Over a month later the title still fit wrong. Jon Snow was never meant to be king. Jon Snow was barely meant to be a member of the Night’s Watch. He was supposed to be a ranger at best, sent to live and die somewhere between the realm and the wilds above the Wall, forgotten by everyone except those among his family who cared to remember and the black brothers who might have the duty of burning his body. He was never meant to be Lord Commander Snow, leading them in the fight against Wildlings before they learned who the true enemy was.  


          Never meant to be King in the North.  


          _You’re brooding, Snow,_ a voice that sounded too much like Robb’s forced him to move. Jon threw logs onto the nearly dead embers and poked them until they caught, hoping to chase the chill from the room. A chill he knew from the way his breath frosted in the air in front of him, not because he felt it on his skin.  


          He didn’t feel cold the way he once did, before. Northmen always said that Starks had winter in their veins and snow and cold didn’t bother them. Of all his brothers and sisters, he was the one who felt the cold most keenly, no matter how he tried to hide it. As a boy he saw it as another sign of his bastardy; a sign he was born south of the Neck in warmer climes. Now the cold was a trivial thing, something he had to be reminded of as if some internal fire raged inside him that chased away the bite of winter.  


          An image of Melissandra and her silks came to his mind. Of the way snowflakes melted on her skin. Of how steam rose from her as she stood on the wall, eyes always staring out at the forest beyond.  


          The feel of a warm tongue against his fingers tore Jon from his thoughts. Ghost stared at him, red eyes searching. “I’m all right, boy,” Jon said, scratching the direwolf behind one large ear.  


          His friend didn’t look convinced. Ghost closed his mouth and tilted his head before bumping his forehead into Jon’s chest with enough force to push him back into his chair.  


          Jon lifted his other hand to scratch beneath Ghost’s jaw. “I’ll be all right,” he corrected, and that seemed to appease the direwolf for the moment. He padded over to the fireplace and settled on his side with a silent huff.  


          Weary of getting lost in his own mind Jon turned his attention back to the missives that peppered his desk. There weren’t enough late nights or early mornings to give him the time to see to all the North’s concerns. Roose Bolton served as Warden for years, but neither cared for more than terrorizing their lords and smallfolk and collecting exorbitant taxes. It seemed every crofter’s village and settlement from Moat Cailin to Queenscrown needed his attention.  


          There were requests for builders, stonemasons, and supplies to repair castles and keeps that were damaged or simply fell into disrepair because the lords and masters were too afraid to ask for assistance. Requests to oversee disputes between lords dating back to before he heard of Bran and Rickon’s deaths. Old reports of the missing and notices of those who died and had their lands passed on to their heirs.  


          Their most pressing concern was food. It was the only thing the Boltons saw to with any efficiency. Winterfell was well provisioned, but that was on the backs of the smallfolk and lesser lords who couldn’t resist when their goods were stolen. The records Maester Wolkan recovered from Luwin’s study showed the last harvests were sparse, with most of what was planted rotting or freezing in the fields with the young men and farmers either gone or too afraid to leave their homes.  


          Many of the smaller homesteads and villages were already abandoned, and the castles were inundated with larger than expected numbers of smallfolk as winter set in, including Winterfell. Winter Town was swollen, which lent its own troubles. He ordered the structures destroyed first by the Ironborn, and then Ramsay rebuilt as quickly as possible, but it still left many camping in burnt out husks with little more than the clothes on their backs. The Wolfswood was alive with the sound of axes and felling trees, but he didn’t know if it would be enough. Some he was diverting to Castle Cerwyn to the south, which meant building wagons and planing runners to transport children and the elderly who wouldn’t be able to make the trip on foot in the cold. The only good thing to come of it was taking the winter census would be far easier than most years, with the population so concentrated in so few places, but the numbers themselves were worrisome.  


          After an hour of sorting through correspondence and answering requests, Jon pushed a stack of letters to the side and ran his fingers along a map of the North, tracing the distance between Winterfell and Torrhen’s Square, his mind at Hard Home and the problem that plagued him most of the morning. The memory of what the Others did there would haunt him for the rest of his life. Thousands killed in what seemed like seconds, clawing at the gates, trying to reach safety.  


          Before the Others came, he needed a means to get his people south. Torrhen’s Square sat on the shores of the Tinted Lake and the Whispering River connected the lake to Saltspear. He knew the river was deep and calm enough for barges. From there it would mean going up the Fever and traveling overland to Moat Cailin or braving the Neck and hoping the crannogmen found them sooner rather than later and helped them through the swamps and into the Riverlands, maybe as far as the Reach. He tried to remember Old Nan’s stories. Did the Others ever get as far as the Reach?  


          A heavy knock at his door dragged him from his thoughts. “Enter,” he called, then stood when he saw who it was.  


          “Your Grace.” Lady Brienne bowed after closing the door.  


          Jon nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Lady Brienne.”  


          The lady stood at attention. “I was told you wished to speak with me.”  


          Brienne of Tarth remained something of a mystery to him. She followed his sister like a shadow, trained her squire daily with a dedication that would have made Ser Alliser proud, and asked for nothing in return but the opportunity to do it again the next day. He saw enough of her in the yard to know she was an able fighter, and Sansa swore he could trust Brienne with his life as she did.  


          He knew that she and her squire shadowed Sansa through the Riverlands and to Winterfell and once she escaped, they saw her safely to Castle Black to fulfill an oath made to Lady Catelyn before her death. Most would consider that oath fulfilled, but not Brienne of Tarth. The lady insisted on staying at Sansa’s side as her sworn shield and protecting her from harm; something that gave Jon more comfort than he liked to admit.  


          He gestured to the chair across from him.  


          “No, thank you, Your Grace.”  


          Jon remained standing as well. “With everything that’s happened, I never did thank you properly for protecting Sansa.”  


          “It was my duty, ”Brienne replied. “No thanks are necessary.”  


          “I disagree.” He bowed his head. “Thank you, Lady Brienne, for saving the last of my family. For seeing her to Castle Black, and for continuing to watch over her when I cannot.”  


          The lady lifted her chin, her already upright posture becoming moreso. “I made an oath to see to her safety, Your Grace. I’m only sorry I was unable to help lady Arya when I had the chance.”  


          Jon heard the tale secondhand from Sansa. How Brienne apologized to her for being unable to hold onto their sister after Arya slipped away during her fight with the Hound. “Arya survived King’s Landing, the Riverlands, and the Hound. If she’s lasted this long, she’ll make her way back home.” He tried to fill the words with surety. He had to believe it. The thought of his little sister buried in a shallow grave or food for crows was too painful.  


          Brienne’s jaw worked. “I could have searched longer-”  


          “Aye,” he interrupted, something close to a smile creeping onto his face. “And you wouldn’t have found her. Arya was always good at disappearing. Take it from someone who spent hours searching a castle for her more than once.”  


          The words seemed to give the lady some comfort.  


          “I didn’t ask you here just to thank you, my lady,” Jon continued. “I know you followed my sister to Winterfell from the Riverlands. I wanted to know how you found her.”  


          Brienne blinked in confusion. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but shouldn’t you ask lady Sansa?”  


          Jon set his hands on his desk and leaned heavily on his palms. “She doesn’t speak of it. Of anything that happened before you showed up at Castle Black, really. Believe me, I’ve tried.” Twice, as they traveled through the North gathering allies, he asked her about her years in King’s Landing and after and both times she went silent and cold. It reminded him of some of the Wildlings from Hardhome, those who had seen and lost too much. “I don’t want to cause her any more pain.”  


          Brienne’s expression softened in understanding before she gave a short nod. “It was by chance that we came upon lady Sansa. Podrick and I lost Arya some days before. We were at an inn when Pod recognized her. She was with Lord Baelish and had dyed her hair, but it was her. I offered my services, and she declined. While she was well guarded and wary of me, she did not seem to be in any distress. When I attempted to leave, Podrick and I were set upon by Lord Baelish’s soldiers while he and Sansa continued on the East Road. After escaping, Pod and I followed.”  


          _He brought me North and sold me to the Boltons,_ that was what Sansa said when he asked her how she came to return to Winterfell. Any time he tried to press for details she withdrew. Jon straightened. “And later, after she arrived at Winterfell?”  


          Brienne shifted. “Pod and I stayed in Winter Town. I was able to get a message to her to light a candle in one of the tower windows if she desired my aid, but the signal never came. When the Boltons rode out to meet what was left of Stannis Baratheon’s forces, she escaped with Theon Greyjoy.”  


          Jon gritted his teeth at the mention of Theon. He was the one thing about her time in Winterfell Sansa was willing to talk about. How he was tortured to the point he refused to even say his name and would only call himself Reek and made to sleep in the kennels. How he killed Ramsay’s favorite and convinced her to jump from the ramparts. A forty-foot jump into drifts of unknown depth to escape a monster. “And you found them in the Wolfswood and brought Sansa to Castle Black.”  


          “Yes, Your Grace.”  


          “And Theon?”  


          “Sansa tried to get Greyjoy to come with us. She wanted him to take the black, but he refused. I believe he planned to return to Pyke.”  


          Good. Men who took the black were forgiven their crimes, but Jon wasn’t sure what he would have done if Theon Greyjoy rode into Castle Black alongside his sister. His betrayal drove Bran and Rickon from Winterfell, opened the North to conquest first from Ironborn, then the Boltons. _It wouldn’t have been murder if I took his head in the yard before I knew his intentions,_ he thought. _It would have been justice._  


          Jon braced himself for his next question. “Has she ever spoken to you about what happened to her in Winterfell?”  


          Brienne swallowed and averted her eyes. “No, Your Grace. There were…stories. Things said by those who worked in the castle that made it to Winter Town, but she has never spoken of it with me.”  


          He thought of Sansa curled up into a ball in the tent they shared on the road, her soft pleas in the night that turned into choked off screams if she wasn’t wakened soon enough. “She has nightmares.”  


          “I know. She barely slept on the way to Castle Black,” the lady’s voice was soft and sad. “But when she did it was not peaceful.”  


          Even now, safe in Winterfell, Sansa still had nightmares. He found himself walking past her rooms most nights, listening for cries. There were less as time passed, and he did not know if it was because the dreams plagued her less or she grew better at waking herself before her cries grew too loud.  


          The lady’s hand tightened on her sword and anger worked its way into her voice. “I don’t know the truth of what Ramsay did to her, but the things she said to Lord Baelish-”  


          “Baelish?” Jon frowned. “When did she speak to Baelish?”  


          Brienne pale skin lost what little color it had, and her eyes widened.  


          “My lady?” Jon pressed.  


          “Your Grace,” her brow furrowed. “Perhaps you should ask lady San-”  


          “I’m asking you,” the words were almost a growl.  


          At the fireplace, Ghost jerked himself upright. Brienne’s gaze strayed to the direwolf before she settled her attention on him, lips pursed. “I am lady Sansa’s sworn shield, Your Grace.”  


          “Aye,” he replied. He met her gaze and held it. “And I am her brother and her king, and you will answer.”  


          He could see the conflict in her eyes. Her desire to keep Sansa’s confidences fighting with his command. Resignation flashed through the vivid blue before she spoke. “It was shortly after we arrived at Castle Black,” Brienne explained. “A letter arrived from Lord Baelish after Ramsay sent his message.” Her lip curled at the memory. “It was addressed to Lady Sansa and requested she meet him in Mole’s Town.”  


          Jon wiped a hand over his mouth. “And you escorted her.”  


          “Sansa would have gone to Mole’s Town with, or without me, Your Grace. She was determined.”  


          Determined to meet the man who delivered her to her tormentor. His eyes flicked to Brienne’s sword. Oathkeeper, she named it, forged from their father's sword. “I’m surprised she didn’t order you to cut him down.”  


          The expression on her face said she was as well. “Littlefinger insisted he didn’t know about Ramsay. I think she believed him, and only that staid her.”  


          Jon cleared his throat. “Thank you, lady Brienne.”  


          She knew a dismissal when she heard one and gave another bow. “Your Grace." She turned to leave the solar.  


          “My lady,” Jon called when she was at the door. He waited until she faced him to speak. “I did mean what I said before. Thank you for watching over her. I couldn’t ask for a better protector.”  


          Some of the harshness left her face at his words, and she gave him another small bow before leaving and closing the door quietly.  


          Jon closed his eyes and sat, wishing for nothing more than a horn of Hobb’s ale. It was terribly bitter, and if you were unlucky enough to get the end of the barrel you could almost chew it, but the drink kicked like a stubborn mule.  


          There was only one day when Sansa and Brienne could have met Baelish. When he couldn’t find Sansa in her rooms he panicked and had the men tearing Castle Black apart until Harrin told him that both ladies asked to be let out the gates hours before. He had just finished gathering the men for a search party when they returned, Sansa carrying two bags full of burdock, dandelion roots, and juniper berries. She apologized for frightening him and swore they hadn’t gone out of sight of the Free Folk camp. He’d been so relieved at the time that she was all right that he never questioned it, only made her promise to never leave the castle without him again. A promise she gave readily.  


          _Baelish had my marriage to Tyrion annulled because it was never consummated. He brought me North and sold me to the Boltons. They wanted my claim to Winterfell._ Those were the words Sansa spoke when he asked how she came to be in the North, married to Ramsay Bolton. He pictured her confined in a wheelhouse, strapped to a horse, or else cowed into silence for the journey, not traveling willingly. She told him only what was necessary and let him fill in the details himself. So long as he never questioned them, it wasn’t a lie.  


          However it happened, Petyr Baelish gave his sister to the Boltons and then brought an army North to ‘save’ her from the very people he sold her to. He sat at their table and ingratiated himself with the lords of the North while making certain every one of them knew it was the lords and knights of the Vale who ultimately carried the day against Ramsay’s forces. Lords who ignored his brother’s calls for aid during the War of Five Kings. Whose Lady commanded them to sit idle behind the Bloody Gate while her family’s lands were pillaged by the West. There was a reason they bestirred themselves now, a reason they moved from neutrality to all but declaring themselves for the North in defiance of Cersei.  


          And it all rested on Sansa.  


          If Baelish thought he missed the hooded glances and sly smiles he gave Sansa he was a fool or believed Jon was. There were times when it was all Jon could do to keep himself from gouging the man’s eyes out, the way his eyes followed her. It reminded him too much of Ramsay. Both looked at Sansa as if she were a prize, a possession to be won.  


          The hot fury his thoughts dredged up made a humorless chuckle bubble from his chest.  


          “At least I know I’m not a dead man,” Jon said to himself. He’d feared it when Melissandra first brought him back. When his emotions were banked, smothered things and all he cared about was getting as far away from the Wall as he could. A dead man wouldn’t feel anger churning hot and rancid in his stomach.  


          Ghost stood and walked to the door a moment before a soft knock sounded. “Enter,” he called, far rougher than necessary.  


          When the door opened Jon gestured for Maester Wolkan to enter. The maester froze at the sight of Ghost, who sneezed before padding around him and out into the castle. “Maester.”  


          Wolkan cleared his throat. “Your Grace.”  


          _Another stranger,_ A maester assigned to the Dreadfort who came to Winterfell with Roose Bolton. There was a part of him that refused to trust the man, though he knew Wolkan had no say in his appointment. So far, he seemed capable, treating the wounded from the battle with a sure hand and handing out cures for maladies to the smallfolk.  


          “When I first read Maester Luwin’s accounts of the Stark direwolves, I thought it more fiction than fact,” Wolkan said, a hint of awe in his voice. “To see one of the beasts up close is remarkable.”  


          Jon brushed his awe aside. They had more important things to worry about. “Have you had time to examine Maester Luwin’s notes on the glass gardens, Maester Wolkan?”  


          “I have. I’m surprised a thorough accounting of them has never been done by the Citadel before,” he said with some dismay. “They are quite fascinating.”  


          “They are.” He spent many hours running through the gardens with Robb and his siblings as a child. Sansa favored the herb and flower gardens, while he and Robb would pilfer what fruits they could without being caught. “We need them repaired as soon as possible. With winter here, they’re our best source of food. I’ve set men to clearing out the snow and preparing the beds, but we need the glass as soon as we can get it.”  


          Maester Wolkan handed him a sheaf of papers. “I’ve transcribed Maester Luwin’s work as carefully as I was able, Your Grace, and checked his measurements against what parts of the casing survived. They are as accurate as I am able to figure.”  


          Jon looked over the collection of drawings and measurements. He wasn’t a builder, so he would have to trust the maester’s word. The plans were going out that day on a swift horse to White Harbor and then on to Braavos. They needed the glass gardens restored as soon as possible if he planned on feeding his people through the winter.  


        Maester Wolkan bowed. “If there’s nothing else, Your Grace.”  


          “My sister,” Jon said quickly, looking up. “You treated her while the Bolton’s controlled Winterfell.”  


          “Yes, Your Grace.” The man’s voice gave the slightest tremble.  


          He met maester’s eyes, peering into the watery blue. There was sweat dotting his brow, though the room could only just be called warm. Wolkan was afraid, almost as if he expected Jon to strike him. Jon softened his voice. He didn’t need his maester falling out every time he asked him a question. “And have you had reason to do so since we retook Winterfell?”  


          Maester Wolkan relaxed. “Yes, Your Grace.”  


          Jon steeled himself. There were questions he didn’t want to ask Sansa. Questions he wasn’t sure she would answer honestly, especially now. “How is she?”  


          The rest of the tension drained from the maester. “Lady Sansa is doing quite well, despite what she has endured. None of her injuries have caused lasting harm.”  


          Jon pushed away the memory of whimpers and choked off screams in the night. ‘Lasting harm’ was highly debatable. “And is she with child?” The question left a bitter taste in his mouth.  


          Wolkan shook his head. “No, Your Grace. Nor did she ever conceive.”  


          He let out a long breath. There were some small mercies, then. “Thank you, Maester Wolkan.” He rolled the papers and tucked them into a leather case as the maester left. He called one of his guards and tasked him to pass it to the courier waiting in the stables since dawn.  


          Jon sat listening to the sound of steel ringing on steel in the yard for long minutes, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke, cold, and stone before he took up Longclaw. He’d neglected his training of late, and King in the North or no, he felt the need to hit something.

  

          “My Lady.”  


          Sansa gave a small smile to the young girl who bustled past, the basket in her arms full of steaming linens. She watched her for a moment before continuing on her way, down from the main gallery that overlooked the first bailey. The day was grey, colder than the one before, and she could believe that winter was finally upon them. Fresh drifts from the night before piled against the castle walls, the paths between them dark and muddy, and the bite in the air was enough to shudder her lungs when she first stepped outside.  


          Winterfell was alive around her. The shadow of fear and despair that hung over the castle when the Boltons controlled it was gone. The smallfolk she passed smiled now. A few even laughed, unafraid the sound would draw unwanted attention. There were children in the yards again, the parents of Winter Town no longer fearful of sending their daughters to work in the castle lest they never be seen again or their sons coming home with empty eyes and mute mouths.  


          Sansa lengthened her stride. Walking the grounds unescorted was something Ramsay never allowed her after they were wed. He kept her locked in her room, trapped like an animal in a cage unless he wanted to parade her in front of his men. There were times before her escape that she felt the details of the castle fading from her memory. Since they retook Winterfell, she spent hours walking the yards and exploring the towers, trying to commit every stone to memory so she would never forget it again.  


          An aborted shout drew her attention to the doors of the Great Keep. Ghost’s sleek form trotted down the stairs and started towards her, the Valeman who opened the door near shaking. People were growing used to the sight of the direwolf walking the castle grounds, though there were those who still felt he would attack at any moment. There were so few who remembered Greywind, Nymeria, and Summer. Shaggydog.  


          Lady.  


          “Hello, Ghost.” She gave her brother’s direwolf a pat when he came up beside her and kept pace. He’d been doing that of late; finding her on her walks or as she sat in the Great Hall. When she spoke to Jon about it, he shrugged and said he wasn’t surprised Ghost preferred her company to his. The first time he came to her room and found her brushing the direwolf’s fur he laughed until he couldn’t stand and complained that she was spoiling him terribly but didn’t tell her to stop. “No ribbons, though,” he told her with mock sternness that was ruined by a rare smile. “No one would be frightened of him again if he showed up one morning with a bow around his neck.”  


          She almost scrounged up scraps of cloth to tie one around Ghost the next morning just to see the look on his face.  


          Sansa’s trek took her through a narrow passage, around the Great Keep and smaller towers, towards the lichyard and godswood where there were fewer people. As she walked she turned over a problem like a woodwitch would a casting stone. There was growing discontent from the Valemen over Jon's lack of acknowledgment, especially the lesser lords and hedge knights who expected to be rewarded for their part in securing the North for House Stark and felt slighted when no such reward came. After a moment’s thought, she climbed the stone stairs set into the wall to the narrow gallery. Movement caught her attention and she approached on quiet feet, Ghost leading the way.  


          In the yard below Jon worked at his forms, moving fluidly from one stance to another, Longclaw flashing in the grey light. It was a familiar sight from her youth; Jon finding some corner of the castle to practice in well after Robb and Theon put up their wooden swords, though then she hadn’t given him much attention. He was her bastard half-brother, the stain on her father’s honor that vexed her mother to no end, and it wouldn’t be proper for her to give him more attention than she would a passing sparrow.  


          As a girl, she would stand on the galleries with Jeyne Poole when they were between lessons and pretend they were watching Southron knights duel in some great tourney, their armor shining in warm sunlight instead watching her father’s bannermen train in their boiled leathers. She had vague memories of her brothers sparring with each other, of watching them line up for Ser Rodrick and run through their forms, which wasn’t nearly as exciting. It was nothing like what Jon did now. Sansa knew little and less about swordplay, but she thought that their former master at arms would be proud.  


          She didn’t know how long they stayed there; Jon in the yard below, she and Ghost above watching quietly, but it didn’t last. As a bastard, he could spend hours tucked away, but as King in the North, his movements called attention whether he wished it or not. It started when one of the younger boys passing by stopped to watch, mouth gaping when he recognized just who was training, before he hurried off. He returned minutes later with a few of the stable boys and what looked like two of the kitchen girls. Sansa was sure Jon knew they were there but chose to ignore them. _That won’t work anymore,_ she wanted to tell him. No matter what he wanted his audience would only grow, and now that this corner was discovered there were those that would haunt it just to see if he would return.  


          The girls leaned into each other as Jon whirled and whispered behind raised hands, cheeks reddening. Sansa took a deliberate step forward and wrapped her hand around the rail, sending snow fluttering to the ground. The movement caught the attention of one; a short, busty girl with blonde hair that she didn’t recognize. The blush that stained the girl’s cheeks drained away at her look and both scurried off to whatever duties they were neglecting to ogle their king. The last thing anyone needed was chambermaids clambering over themselves trying to get into his bed. The last thing she wanted was Littlefinger deliberately trying to put one there.  


          Their leaving must have alerted others because a passing group of knights from the Vale entered the yard. Her brother’s sword was almost a blur against his invisible opponent, his feet churning the dirt of the small yard as he moved. The knights watched him with assessing eyes as Jon twisted and brought his weapon down in a vicious swipe.  


          “This is the first anyone has seen of you in the yards, Your Grace.” she recognized him from her time in the Vale. Ser Uther Shett followed Lord Royce like a ginger-haired shadow whenever he visited the Eyrie. “You’ve wonderful form.”  


          Jon turned to the men and heaved in several breaths. “I’ve other duties, I’m afraid and little time for training.”  


          “We’ve heard tales of the King in the North from your bannermen,” a second knight said, this one portly. “Your skill with a blade is almost legendary with the Northmen.” He turned to his companions. “Even the Wildlings can hardly stop talking about your prowess.”  


          Jon sheathed Longclaw. “The Free Folk admire fighters of all kinds.” Sansa recognized his tone. He sounded as he did when he reprimanded Theon for making bawdy jokes in her or Arya’s hearing.  


          “Can I interest you in a spar, Your Grace?” This knight was taller than the other two, lean and sharp-featured with dark hair that brushed his shoulders. She recognized him as well. Ser Lyn Cobray. “You would honor us with a show of your skill.”  


          Something about their words made her nervous. _Walk away,_ she wanted to shout. A king did not spar with common soldiers, knights or no. It was dangerous at best, foolish at worst. Jon wore nothing but his brigadine and gambeson, while the knights wore plate.  


          For a moment she thought Jon heard her somehow, but then the tension drained from his shoulders like water through a sieve. He turned and looked up, directly at her. She gave a small shake of her head. _Don’t_ , she willed. _Say you were waiting for me, that you’ve pressing business with Ser Davos_. Instead, Jon turned back to the knights. “You honor me, ser…?” he said, tone formal.  


          “Ser Lyn Cobray,” the knight sketched a bow that was just deep enough. “Of Heart’s Home.”  


          “Ser Lyn,” Jon repeated. “The last knight I crossed swords with was Ser Alliser Thorne at Castle Black.”  


          Ser Lyn laughed, but it had an edge to it. “I hope I can give you a better fight than a half-frozen old man.” He made a show of looking around the yard. “Would you prefer to move to a larger yard, Your Grace?”  


          _You idiot,_ she wanted to shout it. To storm down into the yard, grab Jon by his mop of dark hair and drag him to his solar like an errant boy. Wanted to set Ghost on the knights so he could savage them for dare asking such a thing of her brother, but she did neither. She fixed her hand in Ghost’s fur, fighting to breathe around the frantic beat of her heart and maintain an expression of mild interest.  


          “The second bailey.”  


          The smile Ser Lyn gave was dagger sharp as they left the yard. Sansa waited until they were gone to stalk down the stair.  


          The second bailey was already crowded by the time she and Ghost made it to the bailey and climbed to the gallery. Jon tested the weight of three tourney swords before choosing one and stepping back into the center of the yard as Ser Lyn did the same. Her brother held his sword low and to the side, feet planted while Cobray’s rested across his left arm.  


          At a word from Orick Wull, the Master at Arms, Ser Lyn’s sword thrust forward like a lance and Sansa’s heart leaped to her throat. Jon’s sword was there, batting it away, then meeting it when it turned to attack from the side. Cobray was taller, but Jon was fast, backing away from the knight and ducking another slash as he stepped to the side. Jon danced away from the knight, forcing Cobray to give chase. After a moment it occurred to her that Jon blocked the knight’s every attack, never moving to attack.  


          After another exchange of blows the two tangled, and for a moment Sansa thought that the knight would overpower her brother, but Jon managed to pull himself free. From then on he pushed forward, battering the knight with a flurry of blows. He caught Ser Cobray’s sword and forced it wide before stepping into the knight’s chest and bringing the hilt of his sword up, the blunt edge of the blade held to Cobray’s neck.  


          “Your match, Y’er Grace” Orick boomed.  


          Jon backed away from Ser Lyn. “Again?”  


          Sansa released the breath she held and loosened her grip on Ghost. The direwolf moved his head beneath her hand, snuffling at her fingers as her brother and Ser Cobray met in the center of the yard once more.  


          “He’s quite skilled, your half-brother.”  


          Sansa turned her head. Petyr Baelish stood at the end of the gallery, his eyes on Ghost. The direwolf leaned heavily against her, his ears pricked as he watched Lord Baelish. She could feel the rumble of his silent growl against her palm. “He’s been fighting since he left Winterfell.”  


          This match was over far quicker than before, and the Valeman ended up in the dirt after a swift exchange of blows. The crowd was larger now, Lord Glover and Lady Mormont among those watching.  


          “So have you.”  


          She remembered the desperation that choked her brother's voice at Castle Black, _I’ve killed brothers of the Night’s Watch. I’ve killed Wildlings. I’ve killed men that I admire..._ “Not the way he has.”  


          “The stakes were just as high,” Petyr countered. He took a small step forward. “Higher, some would argue.” His turned to the yard. “You were both fighting for your life. It doesn’t matter if you were using words or sword.” His tone turned contemplative. “Fighting like that, constantly struggling to survive…it changes people. You know that better than most.”  


          The knight with six bells on his breastplate shouted a challenge and joined Ser Cobray against Jon. When Orick stepped forward to protest her brother shook his head and faced both men. Jon ducked beneath the new knight’s wide swing. The tourney blade clanged along the man’s side as he went before delivering a blow to the back of his head that sent him staggering, though he didn’t fall. The two opponents separated, one to either side with Jon roughly centered between them.  


          “I know Jon,” Sansa said tightly. He had changed from the sullen boy who haunted Winterfell. He was a little taller, a little grimmer, but he was the same boy who picked her up and carried her all the way to Maester Luwin’s study when she fell and twisted her ankle in the godswood. The same one who laughed at Robb’s terrible jokes and knocked Theon into the dirt when he made fun of Arya.  


          “We only know someone as well as they want us to.”  


          She refused to take her eyes off the yard below. “What are you implying, Lord Baelish?”  


          The knight with the bells lunged, his sword sliding along Jon’s until their guards locked. Unlike Ser Lyn, he was able to wrestle Jon’s sword away, but before he could land a blow Jon grabbed him by the breastplate and dragged him forward into a headbutt that sent the man reeling and drew a whoop from Lord Glover. The other knight was there in an instant, sword slashing, trying to catch him, forcing Jon back.  


          _Yield,_ Sansa’s hand clutched Ghost’s fur so hard her fingers ached. Just yield.  


          Jon didn’t yield.  


          Instead, he plowed forward, catching the taller, lighter man around his middle, and lifting him off his feet before driving him into the ground. He leaned forward, wrest the sword from Cobray’s slack grip and held it poised at his throat.  


          “I yield!” Cobray wheezed.  


          Jon lowered the tourney sword to the clapping and stomping of his bannerman. He stood and offered his hand to the knight. For a moment she thought Ser Lyn would knock the hand away, but after a charged moment he took it, allowing Jon to help him to his feet. She finally recognized Lord Royce among the crowd, who looked ready to murder the two knights as he stalked towards them if the redness of his face was any indication. Lord Glover strode forward laughing and slapped Jon on his shoulder so hard he rocked with the force of it. She couldn’t hear what was said over the din, but Jon shook his head.  


          Petyr took another careful step forward. “I’ve been making inquiries about your half-brother. Some of the things I’ve heard are too fantastic to be believed. Others are disturbing, to say the least.” He nodded his head in the direction of the yard. “They say he killed one of his sworn brothers on his first ranging and lived for months beyond the wall with wildlings as a deserter. That it was only desperation that had the Night’s Watch take him back.”  


          She thought of Tormund, one of the few capable of making Jon laugh the way he did before. Of the giant Wun Wun, the last of his kind as far as anyone knew, who broke down the gates of Winterfell. “Wildlings that later fought for him when the rest of the north cowered behind their walls in fear of Ramsay Bolton.”  


          With the spectacle over, the crowd had thinned considerably. Lord Royce approached Jon and spoke. To give an apology, no doubt. Perhaps ask forgiveness for the hotheadedness of the men under his command. She could imagine Jon’s reply. _Everyone needs training, Lord Royce. Even a king. How can I ask my people to do so when I do not?  
_

          She finally turned to look at Petyr. He watched her with a look of soft concern. “If for some reason you fear for my safety Lord Baelish, there’s no need.”  


          “He beat a man near to death in front of you with his bare hands.”  


          Rage flashed hot and bright in her chest; made her cheeks prickle in the cold air. “He did.” Sansa gave him a level stare. “And I fed that man to his own dogs for his crimes against me and the North.” _I watched until he stopped screaming, and never in my life have I felt such relief._ Before he could respond, she started for the stairs. “Good day, Lord Baelish.”  


          Sansa took a few steps before she realized her brother’s direwolf wasn’t at her side. She imagined he was still sitting there, staring at Baelish, red eyes unblinking. “Ghost,” she said quietly.  


          She waited until Ghost was at her side to continue walking, one destination in mind. Half-siblings or no, she couldn’t be seen running into his rooms, so she turned to the only other place she knew he would go. By the time she made it to Jon’s solar the slight shaking of her hands was gone, though she was unable to stop pacing the enclosed space. So she waited, and she paced until her stomach felt sour and she was near dizzy with anger, Ghost watching her from his place by the fire.  


          Sansa spoke before the door finished opening.  


          “What did you think you were doing?”  


          Jon froze half in the door, Ser Davos behind him. Her brother’s Hand had an expression on his face closer to a father berating his son than a lord speaking to his king. “Sansa,” Jon said slowly as he stepped inside. The gambeson and brigadine were gone, replaced by a leather jerkin and quilted woolen shirt.  


          Her gaze went to Ser Davos and she reigned in her temper, but only just. “If you would excuse us, Ser Davos,” she said. “There is something I wish to discuss with our king.”  


          “He can stay,” Jon brushed past her on his way to his desk and sat heavily, leaving Davos to close the door. “If you’re going to yell at me, you can save time and do it together.”  


          Sansa stalked forward. “Do you understand what could have happened down there?” she asked. “A king doesn’t spar against common soldiers, Jon. You could have been hurt.” _You could have been killed._ “What would have happened if one of those knights landed a blow to your head, aside from knocking some sense into you?” She could have screeched when his only reaction was an amused shake of his head.  


          “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but Lady Sansa is right,” Davos added, arms folded behind his back. “You’re not the Lord Commander anymore. You’re a king. You want to lead your armies from the vanguard, fine; there’s no one who can stop you. But to put yourself at risk with no purpose-”  


          “It wasn’t without purpose.” Jon interrupted as pressed his hands into the arms of his chair, looking between the two of them.  


          Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Really?”  


          Jon tapped the knuckles of his right hand on his desk. “Do either of you truly think knights of the Vale would offer to spar with a king for no reason other than pride?” Jon looked at her. “Father had men from his liege lords here all the time, and when he was in the yards the only person who would think to raise a sword to him unless asked was Ser Rodrick.” He looked to Davos. “You knew Stannis for years. I’m sure he trained.”  


          Davos nodded. “Constantly.”  


          “Did he ever do so with anyone who wasn’t one of his household knights?”  


          The Onion knight breathed deeply before huffing out his answer. “No.”  


          Sansa sank into the chair opposite her brother. _That_ was what bothered her about the entire exchange.  


          “Lord Royce was ready to have both of them digging latrines for the rest of their lives for what they did,” Jon admitted. “I imagine the rest of their time at Winterfell won’t be pleasant. They were willing to face that for something, or someone.” His gaze settled on her. “Other than Royce, who from the Vale has that kind of power?”  


          _Petyr._  


          When she said nothing, he continued. “Did you happen to notice Ser Lyn’s sword?”  


          Sansa thought back with a frown. Tried to picture the sword Ser Lyn unbuckled at the beginning of the bout. “The pommel is jeweled, I think.”  


          He leaned forward. “It is. A heart-shaped ruby.”  


          Ser Davos unfolded his arms.  


          “What is it?” she asked.  


          “Ser Lyn Cobray wields Lady Forlorn,” Jon huffed out, voice tired. “Valyrian steel. Houses pass blades like that down in two ways; either to the heir or to the best swordsman.”  


          “Lyn Cobray isn’t a lord.”  


          "I know.”  


          Her gaze went to Jon. He watched her, unmoving, face set.  


          Sansa heard the rumors of how well her brother fought. The Wildlings saw him almost as a god, the men of the Night’s Watch weren’t far behind. _I’ve been making inquiries about your half-brother._ “Baelish wanted to know if the rumors about you were true.”  


          “He wanted to know how easy a target I am.”  


          His words chilled her. “And now he knows.”  


          “He knows something,” Jon conceded.  


          “And why would Littlefinger be sending knights after you?” Davos sounded genuinely confused. “He’s declared for the North.”  


          “He wouldn’t send knights,” Sansa said absently. Petyr wasn’t a fool. If Knights of the Vale killed the King in the North, they’d never make it south alive. “And he won’t. Not unless he thinks there is something he can gain from it.”  


          “As much as I would like to send the lot of them back below the Neck, we need the knights of the Vale here, especially with what’s coming.” Jon looked like he’d been forced to bite into a lemon. “We need Ser Lyn’s sword.”  


          “And is there any reason Lord Baelish has to be here as well?” Davos’s hand clutched at the pouch he always wore. His knuckle bones, Sansa heard. “From what I’ve seen he isn’t exactly a fighting man, and most of the men defer to Lord Royce.”  


          Sansa shook her head. “He is acting regent until Robyn comes of age. So long as the Valemen are here he has reason to be.” _And so long as I am here, he will be._ She looked at Jon. “Why did you suspect Baelish was testing you?”  


          “Why didn’t you tell me about Mole’s Town?”  


          It felt like she was plunged into one of the pools in the godswood. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could do nothing but stare as icy dread washed over her.  


          When she said nothing, Jon spoke to his Hand. “Would you excuse us, Ser Davos?”  


          The Onion Knight shifted slightly, no doubt trying to judge if that was wise. 

          Finally, Davos moved to the door. “My Lady. My King.”

  

          _She froze like a rabbit spotting a wolf.  
_

          It was a reaction he hadn’t seen in Sansa since the day she arrived in Castle Black. Not when she read Ramsay’s letter. Not when Robbett Glover confronted her about Robb’s failures. Not when she faced Ramsay at the parlay, her tormentor within arm’s reach. Each time Sansa was faced with something that should have set her back, she straightened her spine and glared, determined to face it.  


          Jon watched as she drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, the rigidity of her muscles leaving as the air escaped her lungs. After a moment she looked to him, face impassive. “Brienne told you.”  


          “She did,” he admitted. “It’s hard to deny a command from a king.” Her eyes widened and genuine anger brought a flush to her face. “She’s very loyal, your knight.”  


          “She’s not a knight.”  


          “She should be.”  


          Sansa didn’t respond. Instead, she studied him, blue eyes roving over his face. She did that to everyone now, eyes always assessing, never still. It reminded him too much of Catelyn Stark; the way her eyes would follow him as if waiting for him to plunge a knife into Robb’s back. He’d tried to ignore it, told himself it was nothing, only his imagination, but he couldn’t ignore it now. “Why did you meet Petyr Baelish in Mole’s Town, Sansa?”  


          “He sent a message,” she answered, expression mulish.  


          “The man who sold you to the Boltons sent you a message, asking to meet in an abandoned town, and you decided to go.” His voice was flat.  


          Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Don’t speak to me like I’m a child,” Sansa's voice was strident. “I knew the risk, and it was necessary.”  


          Jon rubbed his face, struggling to get himself under control as anger licked hot and violent at his chest. It was in the past, all of it. There was nothing he could do about it now. The meeting happened. She returned to Castle Black unharmed. “One you shouldn’t have taken," he stressed. "One you should have told me about if you were.”  


          “So you could protect me? Perhaps make the decision for me?” Sansa’s chin dipped. “Baelish said he heard of my escape from Winterfell and came with the knights of the Vale to help me,” she told him, voice cold. “They were camped at Moat Cailin.”  


          “And instead of asking to help us save our brother, you had them return to the Vale. Knowing what you asked of me. Knowing what we were up against.”  


          “I didn’t want anything to do with Littlefinger and I thought…” her voice broke and she looked away. “I thought more houses would rally to us. I thought what father said was true, that the North was different. The Starks ruled here for over eight thousand years, Brandon the Builder raised the wall. We are as much a part of the North as the ground Winterfell is standing on.” Her mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. “I should have known better.” She breathed in deeply and turned back to him, eyes imploring. “It wasn’t just that. Involving the Vale meant trusting Littlefinger and only a fool trusts Littlefinger. Every gift from him has a poisoned barb in it somewhere, no matter how careful you are. He’d want something in return.”  


          Of that he was certain. His next question was quiet. “If I hadn’t pressed Brienne, would you have ever told me?”  


          “Does it matter?”  


          “Yes, it matters.” He leaned forward. “You made a decision; one you knew was dangerous. One you knew could get Brienne and yourself killed or captured without saying anything to anyone.” It would have destroyed him if she disappeared. He’d only had her back for a few days, and she would have been gone again. Back in the hands of a madman. “I swore I would protect you.”  


          “And I told you no one can protect anyone.” She almost looked sad, as if he were a child who didn’t know any better.  


          “You’re right. Not when you do your best to keep them from it. If something happened to you…” he trailed off. Remembered the feel of Ramsay’s cheek shattering beneath his fist, the feel of his blood as it worked its way through his gloves. He’d wanted nothing more than to keep hitting him. To keep going until all that was left was a red ruin. To rip at the white skin of that monster’s belly until his entrails poured out onto the mud-  


          “…on? Jon?”  


          He looked up. Sansa was staring at him with worry. Ghost was next to her, red eyes knowing. “Are you all right?”  


          “No,” he answered honestly, unable to look at her. He took in a slow breath and tried to clear the taste of blood from his mouth. “If something happened to you… I would burn down every holdfast, village, keep and castle in the Seven Kingdoms until I found those who did it, or I’d die trying. Oaths, duties, crowns…it wouldn’t matter. None of it would matter.” Her words about Cersei haunted him. If an assassin’s knife found its way into his sister, he would murder his way to the Red Keep and strangle the life from the woman with his bare hands. “I need you to trust me, Sansa.”  


          Her face fell. “I do.”  


          “No, you don’t.” Not truly. She trusted him not to hurt her, though there were times when she flinched away if he moved too fast, but she didn’t trust his judgment. Didn’t trust him to know what to do in any given situation. She thought him naïve, he knew that. “I know you don’t think I’m smart enough for this-”  


          “I never said that,” she denied.  


          He gave a humorless smile. “No, you didn’t. You don’t have to.” He thought back to that first meeting in the Great Hall. “You would have had me attaint the Umbers and Karstarks and strip them of their lands. What purpose would that have served?”  


          “It shows the other lords you aren’t to be trifled with,” she answered. “You forgave those who refused to fight for us, but the Umbers and Karstarks didn’t just refuse to fight. They fought _against_ us. Fought against the House they were sworn to for thousands of years. Stripping them of their lands lets the other houses know that their families will be held responsible for their actions. Raising others in their place gives us lords we can trust.”  


          There was logic in that decision, though it still wasn't one he would make. He folded his hands on his desk. “And how would we know those lords won’t turn on us at the first opportunity?”  


          She leaned forward, hands folded primly. “Because they would remember who raised them up. Remember who gave them their position and what happened to those who stood against you.”  


          “And you don’t think Alys and Ned will remember I showed them mercy?”  


          Sansa’s eyes bored into him. “People remember the stick longer than the carrot.”  


          He saw the moment she regretted saying those words out loud. The way she withdrew and sat back in her chair; face turned to the fireplace. “Sansa?”  


          “I do trust you, Jon,” she repeated, eyes on the flames. “But I know how men like them think. Royce, Baelish… I thought Northmen were different but they’re more of the same.” She turned back to him. “I can help you.”  


          “It may be hard to believe, but I was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. I’ve led men. Rapers, thieves, murderers. Some of them were even honorable. I imagine a group of lords won't be too much harder.”  


          Her eyebrow ticked. “And what did you do when one of your men refused to follow your orders?”  


          He thought of Janos Slynt begging on his knees. “I beheaded him.”  


          That caught her off guard. “I don’t think beheading lords will win you any favors,” she said slowly.  


          “No, it won’t.” But it did silence a few of the louder malcontents until Alliser led his mutiny. “You told me I had to be smarter than our father. Smarter than Robb. And I’ll admit I do need your help. I’m not asking you to agree with everything I say. You want to question me? Fine. In these walls, you can question me as much as you like. Yell at me. Throw a shoe at me if you feel the need. But out there, in front of the lords, in front of Baelish, we have to stand united.” He looked down. "Dealing with a group of lords who all think they know better than I do is bad enough.”  


          “Maybe some of them do.”  


          His stomach dropped. Sansa’s expression was serious, but only for a moment. There was a gleam in her eye, and the corner of her mouth lifted before she broke out in a chuckle.  


          The ice that settled in his core at her words thawed. “Funny.”  


          “You should see your face,” she said between laughs.  


          Jon tried to hold onto his anger, but his scowl broke into a smile. Sansa’s merriment made her look younger. Reminded him she was still a girl barely twenty and lifted some of the weight from his chest. “Glad I can still amuse you, my lady,” he said without heat. “So, I agree to let you help me, and you agree to trust my judgment at least some of the time?”  


          She made a show of thinking. “I suppose, Your Grace,” she answered.  


          “Good. Because I want you to be the one who deals with the lords of the Vale from now on.”  


          His sister’s expression smoothed to the careful blankness he was learning meant she was surprised. “Why?”  


          “The Knights of the Vale rode here for you, not the North.” _And if Petyr Baelish thinks to ask for your hand in exchange, I’ll hand him his head._ “You’re Ned Stark’s last trueborn daughter. The last Stark in Westeros. Niece to Lysa Arryn and cousin to their liege lord. I’m just some bastard Snow the Northern lords propped up in Robb’s place.”  


          Sansa frowned. “You’re not just some Snow. Ramsay was just some Snow.” She reached across his desk and grabbed his hands. “You are Jon Snow, natural son of Eddard Stark, the successor to Robb Stark, King in the North. Last in a line that stretches all the way back to the Kings of Winter.”  


          “Aye.” He pulled away gently. “I may be King in the North, but to Lord Royce and the rest of them, I’ll always be a bastard. An upjumped bastard, but a bastard all the same. You know what they say about bastards in the south.” _Bastards are not to be trusted,_ he heard Septa Mordane say that once when he walked past the nursery where the girls had their lessons. _They are born of lust, of lies and deceit and that is their nature._ It was the reason Lady Catelyn watched him like a hawk whenever he was near her children. It didn’t matter that he would cut off his own arm before ever hurting them.  


          “The Northern lords may be willing to name me king because of my blood, but the knights and lords of the Vale aren’t Northmen, for all Lord Royce thinks his opinion matters in our affairs. I think it would be an honor for their concerns to be seen to by the cultured, refined daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark.”  


          Sansa said nothing for long moments, the only sound in the solar the crackling of the fire. He watched as her expression changed from assessing to something close to approving. “Dealing with the Southron lords means working more closely with Petyr.”  


          Jon’s gaze sharpened. “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope the characters weren't too OOC in this chapter. I'll probably come back and replace it later with something similar but more fitting if I can get something to work. Writing Jon is a nightmare for me :(
> 
> For anyone interested, here are some videos that I used to visualize the sword fighting:
> 
> [ Solo Flow Drill ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_tiQYItwRQ) Just as a rough visual.  
> [ Bjorn Ruther](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCqY4z_JKCBi18SZJV9vWjbA) This man's entire channel is a goldmine if you are looking for historically accurate longsword techniques.  
> Yes, I am that nerdy.
> 
> On Valyrian steel swords. I imagine that they would be the sports cars of the GOT world. Most American men can tell a Corvette from a Ferrari at a glance (at least, most of the ones I know can). There aren't that many running around Westeros, and the heart-shaped ruby on the pommel of a Valemen's sword would be a dead giveaway.
> 
> The style that Lyn Cobray is using is called Schlussel, and we've seen it on GOT before. Brienne uses it as her first stance when she's fighting Jaime.


	5. Fealty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion muses on Targaryens, he and Dany discuss northerners and Jon Snow, and a new character appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has taken the time to review and leave kudos! You are awesome ^_^

          _All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes._  


          Tyrion stared down at the words. They were some of the first he ever said to Jon Snow. Some of the truest he’d ever said to anyone, and he was sure the boy would remember them.  


          _A man, now,_ he mused. What kind of man had young Jon Snow grown into after years at the Wall? Was he still the dour-faced, earnest youth, or had that place carved him into something sharper? Something harder. Even more, he wanted to know how Jon Snow managed to circumvent his vows and become a king without the whole North baying for his blood. Since its inception, there was only one fate for those that attempted to leave the Watch.  


          “Maybe he has Podrick’s charm,” he mused, then shook the thought away. He didn't think Pod could fuck joy into the stone-faced Northmen _before_ the War of Five Kings.  


          Tyrion leaned back in his chair and waited for the letter to dry. He was becoming an expert at waiting, much to his dismay. When Daenerys and her host first arrived on Dragonstone, he thought they would attack King’s Landing in a quick, decisive strike. The queen had dragons and an army of over sixty thousand Dothraki and Unsullied. Even if they were unable to breach the gates, there was no gate in the world that could keep out a dragon, let alone three. They were afforded the ultimate high ground, and he fully intended to take advantage of it. Instead, they spent their time waiting for Varys to return from the mainland or wherever the Spider disappeared to just hours after they landed.  


          It was productive waiting, at least. They received word from Sweetport that Lord Waylar had retaken his seat without bloodshed, his nephew more than happy to step down. He was gathering his levies such as they were and preparing to march. Lady Olenna sent a raven to Highgarden with orders to call her banners quietly, but not _too_ quietly. Just enough movement to make Cersei nervous and perhaps begin amassing Lannister forces on her western borders. Ellaria Sand sent a raven to Sunspear calling for Dornish soldiers to begin gathering in the Prince’s Pass in the Marches.  


          As far as orchestrations went, everything seemed to be going smoothly; creating a noose he intended to slowly tighten around his sister’s neck. Cersei never did like feeling trapped. She was a lioness, and like a lioness, she tended to lash out when she felt threatened. The amassing troops would focus her attention west and south, places she already expected attacks to manifest and drawing her away from the east. Away from Dragonstone.  


          The most pressing matter now was the lack of response from Driftmark. The silence from the neighboring island was deafening. Ser Donnar expressed confusion and more than once asked leave to travel there himself, but Daenerys refused. “I will not send a loyal subject to be killed or captured,” she said the third time he asked. “We will wait until Lord Varys returns.”  


          He was hours away from suggesting the Spider managed to get himself killed or captured when a Pentoshi slip anchored off the coast and Varys returned ahead of the storm currently battering them from all sides and after him the priestess that apparently led Stannis to his doom. A priestess carrying news of impossible things in the north. Looking at the woman, Tyrion could see why Stannis, a man notorious for his disdain of the Seven, suddenly found religion. In fact, all of the priestesses of R’hllor he’d seen were beautiful, almost uncannily so. The High Septons of old could have learned something from such tactics. The Northerners might have been more willing to abandon their weirwoods if the Faith flooded the north with septas that looked like Kinvara and less like the sour-faced old woman who haunted the sept at Casterly Rock..  


          After checking that the ink was dry, Tyrion rolled the parchment and tucked it into an inner pocket of his doublet. He would like to say he trusted the people of Dragonstone implicitly. Almost all of them would give their lives for Daenerys and her dream of ruling the Seven Kingdoms, but old habits died hard and he knew well the price paid by those who trusted.  


          Targaryens were a strange breed, he mused as made his way through the castle, navigating the winding hallways with ease, their ancestral seat even more so. Their obsession with dragons was evident in how carvings of the beasts were present in some shape or form in every room and hall. They were carved into the walls and ceilings, randomly etched into floor tiles and stood sentinel on the turrets. Though he wasn’t foolish enough to step outside in weather like this, he was sure water poured from the mouths of those that lined the eaves. In his own room, two sinuous shapes eternally wrapped around each other made up his mantle, and he wondered if they were supposed to be fighting or fucking.  


          He liked to think it was the latter.  


          Obsession with dragons aside, Dragonstone was as spare and dreary as Winterfell. There was nothing to soften the hard stone of the stronghold. The walls were bare of tapestries and the floor lacked carpets of any kind. He would have thought it the demesne of some poor lord, not the ancestral holding of the princes of the realm. Daenerys mentioned missing gilding on the dragons in the throne room, so perhaps when her family held Dragonstone it looked different. The Red Keep was certainly gaudy enough in places to suggest they weren’t naturally so austere. He tried to imagine the long hall he walked lined with a carpet in Targaryen black and red.  


          The lack of carpets and tapestries had another effect: it meant the rooms were dreadfully cold. The fire on the grate in his quarters did an admirable job of fighting against it so long as he kept it high. The thick rug currently in front of his fireplace was one he took from the Great Pyramid, nearly three times his height and half that in width. It was the pelt of a mammoth creature found in the mountains of Asshai whose name he’d forgotten, but whose fur was murky grey, thick and feather soft. He kept his wooden window screen firmly in place, which did work as the maid promised but allowed frigid slivers of air through. He thought back to his thick woolen bedclothes. They were more than suitable the night before, but the night before the seven hells wasn’t raining down on them.  


          After they secured the Seven Kingdoms and he was back in King’s Landing, he was going to hire glazers to install glass in every window on Dragonstone, no matter the cost.  


          Dragonstone was also full of wonders that were practical enough to make his jaw drop. The row of privies that ran along the southern wall of the keep was nothing spectacular on first glance. Casterly Rock has a similar arrangement, and he was rather proud of his contribution of making sure they functioned better than they had in half a century, but Dragonstone went a step further. The first time he used one he noticed a carved dragon protruding from the wall made of pale pink stone. Curious, he touched it, and amazingly enough, it moved. After a moment’s indecision, he pressed the dragon, which flattened to the wall with a click and resulted in him being drenched in cold water and falling out of the privy with his trousers around his knees. Thankfully, the hallway was empty, so he managed to repair his state of dress without an audience.  


          On closer inspection, he discovered that pressing the dragon triggered the opening of a hole in the ceiling, through which water poured into the privy for a set amount of time; five seconds, to be exact. It served to wash away any waste and kept down the smell considerably. The closest explanation anyone on the island was able to give was the privies were connected to a black stone cistern that filled with rainwater. Everything aside from the dragons was buried deep within the stone of the castle, and no Lord of Dragonstone, including Stannis Baratheon, ever gave permission for the maesters to dismantle it to discover the secret.  


          Tyrion didn’t blame them.  


          It was only later after he’d dried himself and was walking to Daenerys to warn her, that he remembered reading of the ‘miraculous’ privies of Dragonstone when he was tasked with repairing those of Casterly Rock. As no details were given, he brushed the claims off as hearsay. He assumed the maester who wrote the tome on waste removal considered anything other than a chamber pot miraculous.  


          Tyrion found the hall that contained the Lord’s chambers and walked past the two Unsullied stationed there. He took it as a sign that they were beginning to trust him, that he wasn’t stopped on his way. The two guards at her doors were not as sanguine.  


          “It is late,” said the one on the right. Unlike most of the Unsullied, he had skin fair enough to be mistaken for a Northerner.  


          “I know,” Tyrion agreed. “Well past the hour of the bat. Is our queen awake?”  


          The two Unsullied looked at each other before the man on the left reached back and gave the lightest of taps on the door. A short, muffled conversation in Valyrian later, and he opened the door.  


          The lord’s chambers were spacious, many times the size of his own, and currently contained an eclectic mix of furniture. The large wardrobe pressed against a wall was Westerosi in design, but the delicate vanity, polished mirror, and backless chair beside it were obviously brought from Meereen. As were the carved panels that decorated the wall beside three heavy doors that led to a balcony, one of which was wide open despite the cold. A small but heavy table sat in front of a fireplace that took up almost the entirety of another wall.  


          Daenerys sat in front of the fireplace, a silver pitcher and cup on the table beside her, wrapped in a blanket. He’d never seen her with her hair unbound, flowing down her back and over her shoulders like burnished silver in the firelight. It made her look younger, more vulnerable, and it struck him again how young she was. Their queen conquered Slaver’s Bay, tamed the Dothraki, and stood poised to take Westeros before the age of twenty-five. If there was an afterlife, he was sure her Valyrian ancestors were looking on with pride.  


          A vast amount of the room was taken up by a bed that was almost comical in its sheer size. Set on a pedestal, it was wide enough that there was a good foot to either side of the two large trunks at its foot. The bedstead itself was dark, shining wood, the carved canopy tall enough to brush the ceiling. The posts were heavily carved with twisting shapes that he was sure weren’t dragons. Pale patterns were inlaid into the wood of the canopy and headboard, shining pearlescent in the golden light of the room. The bedclothes were a mix of furs and brightly colored silk pillows.  


          “Your Grace,” Tyrion said with a small bow as he approached.  


          The gesture brought the hint of a smile to her. “We’re alone. I think you can dispense with formalities.”  


          “Old habits.” He sat in the chair next to her, grateful for the warmth of the fire. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bed that large outside a brothel.”  


          Daenerys flicked a glance over her shoulder and huffed a small laugh. “It’s monstrous, isn’t it? It might actually be from before the war. Some of the designs are High Valyrian.”  


          He was tempted to investigate. While he couldn’t speak the language worth a damn, he was more than passable in reading it. “Any idea what they say?”  


          She settled further into her chair. “Blessings for children, I believe.”  


          Heavy gusts of damp, cold air that threatened to extinguish the candles rushed through the room from the open balcony door. “The fire would be more effective if you closed that,” he teased.  


          Daenerys gave him a sad look. “Believe it or not, I find it comforting. It rained so seldom once we left Pentos.” There was a wistfulness to her tone that he seldom heard. “I miss the sound, even if it is storming.”  


          “I would expect nothing less from Daenerys Stormborn.”  


          His words brought one of her rare, full smiles to her face before she sobered. “Have you written your letter?”  


          “I have.” He flicked a hand to the doors. “Once this has passed, I’ll send the raven north personally.”  


          Daenerys turned back to the fire. “Do you think he will come to Dragonstone?”  


          “It’s hard to say,” he confessed. “The Jon Snow I know would at least respond. Ned Stark did teach him manners.”  


          Daenerys rolled her eyes. “It’s not his manners that concern me. Do you think he will bend the knee?”  


          Tyrion reached for the pitcher of wine, determined to ignore the look Daenerys gave him. “The last Stark to bend the knee was Torrhen Stark, and that was 300 years ago.” He mock-squinted as he poured, only to frown when his drink came out clear. He was sure the look of betrayal on his face was comical. “I might be a bit hazy on my lineages, but if I’m remembering right there hasn’t been another Torrhen Stark since.”  


          “He bent the knee to save his people and they honor his sacrifice by refusing to name sons after him.” She tapped a finger absently. “Is that the gratitude of the North?”  


          Tyrion gave a small shake of his head and drank his water. “Northerners are a… complicated people, and at the same time far simpler than southerners. They can be extremely clannish and closed off, but they do not forget those who have given them aid. They do not dissemble, and with few exceptions, are terrible at it when they try. A Northman will tell you exactly what he thinks of you to your face, politics, and niceties be damned. They are people with a long memory. Slight them, and it is like to come back and haunt you generations later. Earn their loyalty, and it is almost unwavering.”  


          “It’s a wonder my ancestors had so little conflict with them,” Daenerys said, face pensive.  


          “Torrhen Stark may have bent the knee, but in three hundred years of Targaryen rule, the only king to make it north of the Neck was Jaehaerys I along with his queen Alyssane.” Tyrion set his water down and glared at the pitcher. This was definitely a conversation that required wine. “The North cares little for what happens in the southern kingdoms. Life there is hard. The territory is large, the winters are long, and even in summer, it can snow. They even have their own gods.” He thought back to the godswood at Winterfell. It was beautiful but eerie; a piece of ancient wilderness protected and revered by man. The carved weirwood had none of the pomp and pageantry of a sept with its statues and stained glass. The few times he visited he always felt watched; a not so welcome guest that was tolerated, but only just. “The North stands apart from the realm the way Dorne stands apart. Your ancestors knew to leave them to themselves. Once you’ve claimed the Seven Kingdoms leave the north to itself, much as they have since the Kings of Winter.”  


          She pondered his words. “And how would you suggest I deal with Jon Snow?”  


          “Directly.” He wouldn’t mince words. “Northmen put no stock in useless flattery. Tell him what you want, why you want it, and why bending the knee would be best for him and his people.” He grimaced before he spoke his next words, careful to keep his voice neutral. “I would also suggest keeping any threats to a minimum.”  


          Daenerys’s expression smoothed and one eyebrow climbed to her hairline. Ah, it was going to go like that.  


          “Threats?” her voice was flat.  


          Tyrion smiled. “You have a…temper…Daenerys. We both know it, so there’s no use denying it.” The eyebrow dropped, just a hair. “Most rulers do. Listen to Olenna rail at her people if you don’t believe me. You can be forceful, which is useful in some situations, but it won’t be in this one. Jon Snow has something of a temper too.” He thought of how he first met Jon Snow as he pounded away at a training dummy. How he battered his fellow recruits when there was no other outlet for his frustration and disappointment. “I can’t say if the Wall has made his better or worse, but this meeting will come to naught if the two of you end up yelling at each other. Worse, one of your Bloodriders might try to take his head.”  


          “You think he’d yell at a woman with an army and three dragons?” She looked genuinely intrigued.  


          “I think Jon Snow would yell at the Father himself if he felt it deserved.” His words brought another smile to her face. _You smile now_ , Tyrion thought. _You won’t when you face Stark stubbornness._ “Might I make a suggestion?”  


          Daenerys raised a hand.  


          “As an additional incentive to get Jon to join our cause, you can give him something he’s always wanted. Legitimacy. With the stroke of a pen, Jon Snow can become Jon Stark, eldest surviving trueborn son of Eddard Stark.”  


          “You think he’ll ask for legitimacy in exchange for fealty?”  


          Tyrion laughed. “Snow? No. He’d go to his grave a Snow before he asked to be legitimized.” The boy was too proud by half to actually ask for it. Or maybe it wasn’t pride. Maybe it was a particular trait of self-denial he inherited from his father. “But he wants it. It’s probably the first thing he’s ever wanted. Being an acknowledged bastard can be…precarious… in Westeros.”  


          Dvaenerys scoffed. “Raised in a castle surrounded by his family. I’m sure life was difficult for him.”  


          “You may be surprised.”  


          The seriousness of his tone caught her off guard.  


          It shocked him at times, how little Daenerys knew of the customs of the people she wished to rule. That for all she spoke like a Westerosi noblewoman, Dragonstone was the closest she’d ever been to it. “I’m unsure how it is viewed in Essos, but Westeros can be deadly for a noble bastard.” He would spare her the comparisons to Dorne for another day, or better yet, turn her over to Ellaria. The gods knew the Bastard of Hellholt would have plenty to say about how the baseborn were treated above the Marches. “They are reviled by the nobility and apart from the smallfolk, never truly one nor the other. Many are killed by the family of their trueborn kin, specifically to prevent them from becoming a threat to heirs.” He thought of Edric Storm, Robert’s one acknowledged bastard. The boy was raised at Storm’s End until he fell from the cliffs near the castle at the age of seven. Renly swore the boy was afraid of heights and never would have ventured there, let alone by himself.  


          “Viserys spoke to me of the Blackfyre Rebellions,” Daenerys lifted her own goblet. “I thought the threat came from legitimized bastards.”  


          “Legitimization is a rare event. Most are sent away, raised out of sight and then tossed a small parcel of land once they reach their majority, or else they become hedge knights and make a name for themselves. Jon Snow was raised in his father’s castle alongside his trueborn siblings under the nose of his father’s wife; a woman for whom his very existence was a constant reminder of her husband’s dishonor. From what I saw, it wasn’t very pleasant for him.”  


          It was interesting, watching the delicate dance Jon Snow performed in his own home. He’d been curious to meet him. The Bastard of Winterfell was something of a legend in King’s Landing; proof the honorable Ned Stark was human after all and capable of acting just as base as everyone else, but he proved elusive. He wasn’t present at the welcome feast, and Tyrion spent more time than he’d like to admit searching for a face that was like Ned Stark’s in the crowd. Their meetinglater that night in the yard was pure chance. When he inquired with the servants, he discovered Snow’s banishment was ordered by Lady Stark as she didn’t wish to offend the royal family by sitting a bastard in their midst. For the duration of their time in Winterfell, the boy was absent from any meal or activity where there was a chance the royal family might see him.  


          Despite this, his few glimpses of Jon Snow showed he was well-groomed, dressed, and mannered. He wasn’t a glorified servant, as some nobles treated their bastards, and the care he felt for his trueborn siblings was real and returned for the most part. When he sparred with his brother it was clear Jon was the better swordsman until he wasn’t. More than once he saw Snow deliberately leave himself open or muddle his own footwork so that Robb could score a hit. It was confusing at first, until he followed Jon’s furtive glances to find Lady Stark at one of the galleries or a high window glaring daggers at the boy. When she went about her business, he would unleash his anger on his training partners in a flurry of blows, though never on Robb. He imagined that curtailing of his potential extended to anything where he would be in competition with Ned Stark’s heir.  


          “Life in Winterfell was such that as soon as his father went south to be Hand, Jon Snow left to become a man of the Night’s Watch. He could have asked his father for a keep somewhere. The gods know the North is large enough for it. He could have asked to be fostered. Ned Stark had connections in the Vale and the Stormlands, both known for producing some of the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. The boy did neither. He loved his family so much that he chose to stay and endure Winterfell, and then fled to live out his days with rapists, thieves, and murderers the moment his father was no longer there to protect him.”  


          Before Daenerys could respond there was a knock on the door. 

  

          Daenerys listened intently to Tyrion’s explanation of this strange facet of Westerosi culture, and not for the first time wished Viserys spent time teaching her more of their homeland than on which houses betrayed their family and what he would do to them once he was king. Bastardy wasn’t viewed the same in Essos as Westeros. She assumed it had to do with the prevalence of slavery and the variety of religions on most of the continent. In the East, the main distinction rested on if you were born a free man or a slave, not whether your parents were joined in any of the thousand faiths practiced on the continent. The bastard of a nobleman didn’t receive distinction from that of a lowborn unless the mother was also of high birth, and such bastards were rare in her understanding. Wars were fought for less than some foolish lord dishonoring another’s daughter.  


          Before she could question Tyrion further on the North and what he knew of Jon Snow there was a knock on her door. _“Enter,”_ she called in Valyrian.  


          Sick Mule stepped into her rooms. _“My Queen, a ship has arrived.”  
_

          Daenerys looked to Tyrion. It was late, already past the hour of the eel. _“A ship?”_  


          “It bears a sail with a horse with a fishtail. This one was told a man called Aurane Waters has asked for an audience with you.”  


          She switched to Common. “A seahorse?"  


          “It seems House Velaryon has answered your call, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, relief plain in his voice.  


          Thunder crashed outside, near deafening, as the rain continued to lash the castle.  


          He turned to the open door. “Only a madman would brave this weather.”  


          “Hopefully not.” Daenerys stood. _“See this man to the antechamber and wake Jasatti and Havvi. And call for Missandei,”_ she ordered. She would need both women to get her hair in something resembling order in a short amount of time, and Missandei took her role as herald seriously. Her friend would be wroth if she wasn’t allowed to fulfill it the first time a Westerosi came to Dragonstone, middle of the night or no.  


          _“My Queen.”_  


          Daenerys breathed deeply and looked to her Hand. “Any advice for dealing with an emissary from House Valeryon?”  


          Tyrion tilted his head and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You are both the blood of Old Valyria, the closest kin to each other outside of House Celtigar. House Valeryon enjoyed a position of high status under Targaryen rule because of it. Remind them of that and I will subtly imply that it will come again under you. Do not let them use that tie to be overly familiar, however. You are still Queen, crowned or not. Begin this relationship how you wish to continue.” He looked at her wardrobe. “And wear something impressive, but not too impressive. You are meeting one of your most trusted vassals, impress, not intimidate. I will meet you in the throne room.”  


          When her handmaidens bustled into the room, chattering away in Dothraki, Daenerys was already planning what to wear. Missandei entered minutes later, pressed and put together as if it were the middle of the day as Jasatti and Havvi wove her hair into braids.  


          “Were you sleeping?”  


          Missandei shook her head. “The library here is beautiful, though it shows signs of neglect. Many of the works are in High Valyrian. Two I believe predate the Doom.” She strode to the wardrobe. “I was told a ship arrived and a man awaits an audience.”  


          “Yes.” Daenerys winced as her braids were coiled and pinned. “House Velaryon of Driftmark has finally sent an envoy. Tyrion suggested I wear something to impress, but not intimidate.”  


          Missandei chose a high-necked jacket of soft, dark grey wool lined with crimson silk and paired it with a silvery linen underdress. The skirt was pleated, longer than anything she’d worn since leaving Meereen, but it softened the deep colors of her jacket. It also emulated the long skirts worn by the servants and the dresses found it what they were told were Lady Baratheon’s apartments. Daenerys decided to forgo the heavy chain and instead used the much smaller dragon pin she’d taken to wearing. Impress, not intimidate, Tyrion said, and she would stand by that.  


          When she and Missandei walked into the throne room, both Tyrion and Varys were already there, her Hand in a fresh doublet and Varys in his ever-present robes. Once Daenerys settled herself on the throne she gestured for the doors to open. The man who entered as Missandei began the recitation of her titles was not what she expected.  


          The Westerosi was tall and broad-shouldered, his blonde hair, long and kept back by two braids at his temples shades darker than her own. His features were graceful, almost delicate, though there was a strength behind them that kept them from becoming womanly. From the way he was described by Ser Donnar she expected a man wearing fine silks and brocades, a man taking full advantage of his station. Aurane Waters’ leather jerkin was of fine quality, but well-worn, as were his boots. His wool tunic and trousers were dark, some color between brown and black. The only sign of riches she could see was a thick gold ring in one ear.  


          He approached the throne in long strides and knelt, bowing his head. “Aurane Waters, My Queen.” His voice was deep, belying the delicacy of his features.  


          Daenerys gave Tyrion a sidelong glance. “Arise.”  


          He stood gracefully, hand going to his hip where no doubt a sword usually rested. “I came as soon as I could, Your Grace. Please forgive Driftmark for not answering your summons at once.”  


          She kept her expression and voice neutral. “In truth, I expected a representative from your house within hours, not days.”  


          “The fault is mine,” Aurane said, a flush working its way up the pale skin of his neck. “I was waylaid in King’s Landing and only just arrived in Driftmark at sundown. I was shocked to hear of your arrival at Dragonstone and dismayed that my brother’s widow had yet to send an emissary or come herself.”  


          Tyrion stepped forward. “And did the Lady of Driftmark tell you her reason for such reticence?”  


          Her guest fixed grey-green eyes on her Hand and a series of emotions flashed over his face too quickly for her to follow before he returned his attention to her. “My goodsister is still reeling from the loss of her husband,” he answered. “Her younger brother was killed in Cersei’s destruction of the Sept of Baelor. She has grown cautious of the calls of kings and queens.”  


          Daenerys let her eyes soften. “I am sorry for the losses your family has suffered at the hands of false rulers in recent years.” She meant every word.  


          He gave a stiff nod. “Driftmark thanks you for your kindness, Your Grace.”  


          “I also thank you for answering my invitation,” she continued. “For over three hundred years, House Velaryon and House Targaryen stood together as two of the few remaining vestiges of Valyria,” Daenerys deepened her voice just a touch, so it echoed through the chamber and thrummed with the pounding rain. “It is our hope that House Velaryon remembers those times and desires to see them come again.”  


          He gave her another bow. “House Velaryon has and will always be loyal to Dragonstone, My Queen, as we were from the days of Aegon the Conqueror.”  


          "To Dragonstone, but not to House Targaryen,” Daenerys pressed.  


          The smile he gave at her words was blinding. “Before your family came from Valyria, Dragonstone was nothing but a smoking rock to our north. It was claimed by Targaryens, and so long as Targaryens remain in this world, it is to them that it belongs.”  


          “It is a shame your nephew isn’t here to say those words,” her Hand said airily.  


          “Lord Monterys is a child, and I’m afraid his mother would not allow him to brave the storm to give his oath to you himself.” Aurane’s gaze went to the window behind her throne. “Understandable. A lesser captain would have gone to the depths, but Velaryons are made for the sea, baseborn or true.”  


          Daenerys raised an eyebrow. “You captained the ship from Driftmark?”  


          He gave her another of those wide smiles. “House Velaryon rules the waves as House Targaryen ruled the sky, Your Grace. To this day we send our young lords to the sea to learn her ways. She is a fickle mistress, but the lessons she imparts are necessary and last a lifetime.”  


          “Be that as it may, Lady Velaryon is regent of Driftmark until such time as Lord Monterys reaches his majority,” Varys’s words were soft, almost apologetic. “Has she given you the authority to speak for your House, or are you here to bend the knee only for yourself?”  


          The levity drained from her guest, leaving him somber. “If it were not her wish, I would not be here. Send emissaries to Driftmark if you doubt my words. I would be more than happy to transport anyone you desire or wait until you confirm my words.”  


          “I am sure Captain Waters is here treating with us in good faith.” Her tone was final. “And your queen thanks you for braving such weather to pledge your fealty and that of your House.” She drew herself up on the throne. “How do the levies of House Velaryon stand, Captain?”  


          “Driftmark has never had many soldiers, Your Grace. Our strength has always been in our ships. When Stannis declared himself King, we provided five of our best dromonds to his cause, only to see four of them destroyed by wildfire, along with my brother.” His features twisted in grief. “When Stannis went North, we provided two cogs to carry his troops. Currently, Driftmark can perhaps field two dromonds with a full crew, three cogs and one hundred soldiers.”  


          It was more than she’d hoped. “And how soon would these ships and men be available?”  


          “As soon as you need them, Your Grace. You have but to give the order.”  


          _Two Houses,_ Daenerys thought. _Two House, with 48 left to go._ “Tell me, Aurane… what do you know of the other Houses sworn to Dragonstone? Celtigar and Bar Eammon? Would they be willing to bend the knee as House Velaryon has?”  


          The captain thought for several moments before answering. “Both Houses remained loyal to Dragonstone when Stannis declared himself king, though he was not well loved by either and he never loved them. If you call, I believe they will answer. If it pleases you, I will have my goodsister send ravens from Driftmark to Lords Duram and Ardrian.”  


          Daenerys examined the Bastard of Driftmark, searching for any sign of deception. His hands were open at his sides, his eyes clear, the muscles of his face relaxed. She could find no sign he was lying. She would consult with Varys about it later. “Your Queen thanks you for your counsel,” she said with a small nod. “Allow me to extend the hospitality of Dragonstone. I will have rooms and a hot meal prepared for you.”  


          “As much as I appreciate the offer, I must decline.” Aurane looked genuinely disappointed. “I would see to the gathering of Driftmark’s forces as soon as possible to be ready when we are needed, and this storm will lash us another day and a half at least. With your leave, Your Grace.”  


          Daenerys gave a small nod and watched as Aurane Waters strode from the throne room. When the doors closed behind him, she turned to Varys. “Do you think he was telling the truth?”  


          He came to stand beside her. “I’ve spent my life observing men and women, Your Grace. Most liars give themselves away. In my estimation, Aurane Waters was being truthful, but I would be cautious. He does hold some enmity for your Hand.”  


          “I’m responsible for the death of his brother, and if what he says is true my sister has claimed another of his house.” Tyrion sounded tired. “I wouldn’t hold it against him.”  


          “But he may hold it against us.” Daenerys stood and headed for the Drum Tower. “Send for Yara. I know some of her people can handle this storm. I would like a ship to follow him and make sure he makes berth Driftmark.”  


          “And if he doesn’t?” Varys called after her.  


          She gave her Master of Whispers a level stare. “Then I want him returned to Dragonstone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Aurane Waters](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Aurane_Waters)  
> [Driftmark](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Driftmark)  
> I always imagined Aurane to look like [Thranduil](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/368732288221302818/) from The Hobbit.
> 
> I actually did some estimates based on flight times for crows, travel times by boat for medieval cogs and by horse, and Daenerys and Co. stay on Dragonstone anywhere between and month and a month and a half in the show before Jon arrives. They won't be twiddling their thumbs that long here. The action picks up next chapter. ^_^ 
> 
> World building question for anyone interested:
> 
> 1\. Do you think the incest thing is something distinct to Valyrian culture, or to Targaryens in particular? It's never mentioned as being a part of the Celtigar or Velaryon clans, and both are from Old Valyria, nor does it seem to be prevalent in Volantis.


	6. Councils and Reinforcements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and Cersei prepare for war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who responded to my question last chapter and who reviewed! Didn't know there were only 40 families that were dragon riders in Valyria. Which makes me wonder about the nobles who live in the Black Walls in Volantis. Maybe there is dragonrider blood still floating around there.

          Within three days of Aurane Waters returning to Dragonstone, she received four ravens. House Bar Eammon and House Celtigar both affirmed their allegiance to Dragonstone and House Targaryen, along with a formal letter from Lady Velaryon asking forgiveness for the lateness of her response and declaring for ‘the true and right ruler of Westeros’. A raven bearing a scroll sealed with the wings of Rook’s Rest declaring Daenerys Targaryen Queen of the Seven Kingdoms arrived from House Staunton that morning. With confirmation of their support both she and Tyrion decided it was time to reveal their plans to Ellaria and Olenna, starting with what Varys saw on his foray into King’s Landing.  


          “There is unrest in the capital.”  


          Daenerys listened as her Master of Whispers relayed everything he saw during his journey into the city, bile churning in the pit of her stomach. King’s Landing was suffering, her people starving, and she was sitting on an island at the mouth of the Blackwater.  


          “The crown blames the destruction of the Sept on a cache of wildfire, hidden for years. The head of the Pyromancer's Guild has backed Cersei, stating that the substance grows more unstable as it ages.”  


          “And the truth?” she asked.  


          “Everyone from the youngest babe to the oldest crone believes the queen had something to do with it if she didn’t light the fire herself. It seems your people have done their job of sowing discontent well, Lady Olenna.”  


          Lady Tyrell nodded.  


          “And what does this mean for us?” Ellaria asked.  


          “It means taking the city with little to no resistance,” Tyrion answered. “The people won’t stand behind my sister, not with things as they are. She destroyed the Sept of Baelor, the holiest site in the Seven Kingdoms, to save her own skin. If they believe she’s responsible for that they believe she is responsible for killing Queen Margaery, the High Sparrow, her own uncle, and a host of Crownland noblemen in her desire to escape justice.”  


          “I spoke with the High Sparrow,” Olenna said with dark amusement. “He was a nobleman if I’ve ever met one, pretending to be one of the small folk. Well spoken, learned. The common people loved him for bringing the gods back to the Landing, whatever that meant. When he marched Cersei through the streets naked as the day she was born, he won their loyalty. Here was a man, chosen by the gods, willing to bring the Highborn low for their crimes.” She gave a small chuckle. “People are sheep, and he was an able shepherd. After killing my granddaughter, killing him was one of the stupidest things your sister could have done.”  


          “That’s not counting the destruction the wildfire caused near Visenya’s hill,” Varys added. “Several buildings to the east and south were decimated. Dozens were killed and hundreds wounded. It was sheer luck Cersei didn’t burn the entire capital down.”  


          “Do you really think she would have cared?” Daenerys asked. “Cersei strikes me as someone who would burn the world if she could sit atop its ashes.” She noticed the small shift Varys gave at her words and ignored it.  


          “So long as the people she wanted to live were alive at the end? No, she wouldn’t.” Tyrion said as he stared at the table. “It’s not just the city. There are reports of bandits attacking anything that moves on the roads. With all the unrest Cersei’s overextending the City Watch to deal with the countryside.”  


          Daenerys gave the Spider a bland look. “And I’ll assume you’ve found a way to capitalize on this unrest, Lord Varys?”  


          Varys nodded. “Considering the amount of discontent in King’s Landing itself, it’s doubtful that many, if any, of the Crownland houses support her claim. Especially those that lost family in the blaze. Several have already declared for House Targaryen.” The satisfaction in Varys’s voice was palpable. “I imagine we could land your army anywhere near the capital and receive only token resistance if that. Most likely the remaining lords will hide behind their walls and wait for the battle to be over before declaring for the winner, much as they are doing now. There is also the matter of the Ironborn fleet that was sighted in Blackwater Bay. If Euron Greyjoy was here it was to make a pact with Cersei. Even if he didn’t, there is some dispute over who holds the Seastone Chair.”  


          Daenerys turned to Yara. “Can you defeat your uncle?”  


          Yara’s mouth twisted. “With no counting of how many ships he has now? How many men?” She shook her head. “Don’t suppose your contact took the time to count?”  


          “A hundred, or near about. But that number could be far from accurate. From her description, it seemed Cersei wasn’t eager to allow Euron’s fleet too close, lest she cause panic in an already unstable city. She passed the fleet off as an Essossi trading company hoping to negotiate with the crown.”  


          “We should have crossed paths with them before now.” Tyrion gestured to the map. “We have a blockade, and the Gullet isn’t that wide.”  


          “Unless they are waiting in the bay-”  


          “He’s not.” Yara leaned against the table, her face a thundercloud. “He’s not anywhere near King’s Landing.”  


          Tyrion blinked. “And how do you know that?”  


          “Because I knew my father, and like it or not, both of them learned at my grandfather’s knee.” She grimaced. “We skirted wide of the coast so we wouldn’t be seen, but Euron didn’t have to worry about that.” She ran her hand along the eastern coast. “He hugged the shore, stayed well clear of us. We have more ships, more men, and three dragons; he couldn’t hope to beat us on the open sea.” She nodded to the south. “The Broken Arm, though? It forces us in close, makes us easy targets. Our ships have deeper drafts, we’ll be slower, less maneuverable. If he’s smart, he’ll hit us from the sides, then block us in so we can’t run.” She hung her head. “Fuck!”  


          Ellaria stood. “But if we know where he will attack-”  


          “It won’t help us,” Yara pointed to the Painted Table. “This piece of wood doesn’t show all the shoals and underwater mountains that litter the Arm. Some of them are deep enough to avoid, others are right below the surface, waiting to tear the bottom out of a hull. There’s a reason pirates love it, a reason we went through it almost in a straight line. Even if we see him coming, he’s more maneuverable, on ships designed for fighting, with men who know how to take one.”  


          “So the bulk of the Dornish army will have to march through the Prince’s Pass,” Ellaria soothed, though it was clear she wasn’t happy. “It will take longer, but we meet the forces of the Reach at Highgarden and take the Rose Road to the capital. Unless our queen is willing to lend us one of her dragons?”  


          Tyrion answered before she could. “Unless the plan is to stay close to shore, anchor at night, and let every Crownland and Stormland lord know what our fleet is doing, a dragon won’t help.”  


          “Even if I ranged over the Narrows and Broken Arm searching for them there’s no way of knowing how long it would take to locate Euron’s fleet.” The months they spent at sea gave her a new appreciation for those who made their living among the waves. When they sailed from Qarth to Astapor they tended to stay near to land, the better to navigate. The breadth of the open sea was beautiful and terrifying. “I could search for weeks and not find him.”  


          “And the more time we give my sister the better equipped and fortified she will be.” Tyrion reached across the table and moved two of the lion markers further west. “We’ve learned the Cersei has sent two battalions West to shore up the Rose Road and delay any clashes with the forces from Highgarden. Her best option is to take Tumbleton and hold there. It’s close enough to the capital for her to recall troops easily, has access to the headwaters of the Mander and easy access to the Rose Road.” He frowned at the South of the map. “So far, we haven’t seen movement in the Prince’s Pass, but that could be because information is slow coming through the Marches.”  


          Ellaria’s eyebrows furrowed. “I sent the ravens myself, Lannister. My people are there.”  


          “There or not, Cersei hasn’t responded. Either she doesn’t see them as a threat, or she’s relying on the Marcher lords to deal with it, so we can’t count on that draining more of her forces.” He gestured to the Riverlands. “Varys had word the Blackfish held Riverrun for a time but lost it. Edmure Tully retook control of his family’s seat for the crown under duress. His wife and child are being held by my aunt in Casterly Rock.” Tyrion shifted some of the carved lions south. “The army returned to the capital, but a quarter of it had to turn back as small rebellions to my sister’s rule have cropped up in response to the Blackfish’s last stand. Then there’s the business at the Twins.”  


          Olenna snorted. “Old Walder finally got what he deserved.”  


          She knew something of what occurred between the Freys and Starks. Word of the Red Wedding had spread as far as Volantis; a Westerosi lord killing his king at a wedding feast in retaliation for a broken vow. Tyrion clarified that it has less to do with vows and more to do with what Tywin Lannister could promise Walder Frey. The grasping lesser lord saw his chance to elevate his family and took it, uncaring of the stain it would leave on his house. Guest right was a distinctly Westerosi custom, with roots as old as the continent itself. Even Tyrion, who she knew wasn’t particularly religious, was abhorred by the thought of what happened.  


          “As did most of the males of his line,” Varys added. “The remaining Freys are too busy with infighting to see who will gain control of the Twins. From what my little birds have been able to discover, all of the Freys who had a part in the Red Wedding met their end there. The poison was quite effective.”  


          “And do we know who to thank for loosening Cersei’s hold on the Riverlands?” Daenerys asked.  


          Varys hesitated. “Reports of what actually happened are spotty, Your Grace, though there are some eyewitness accounts. The assassin apparently told those who survived to let everyone know that winter had come for House Frey.”  


          There was silence in the room before Lady Tyrell let out a loud laugh. “I didn’t think Ned Stark’s bastard had it in him,” Olenna’s voice was filled with quiet glee.  


          “Are we sure it was the King in the North?” Daenerys looked to Tyrion. The man he described to her didn’t seem the type to deal in assassins and poisons.  


          “There aren’t many Houses that have as much reason to wish the Freys erased from existence,” her Hand admitted. “And none would use those particular words lightly. If it wasn’t the Starks, then it was someone with close ties to them.”  


          “This is all well and good,” Olenna picked up her glass of lemon sweet. “Now how do you plan on taking King’s Landing?” She gestured to the Painted Table. “I’ll assume your grand plan isn’t to worry Cersei to death.”  


          Tyrion moved to the eastern side of the table and picked up a horse marker. “The bulk of our queen’s army is light cavalry, which will be useless unless my sister is stupid enough to send soldiers out of the city. The Unsullied are taught how to take a city, but landing either force close to King’s Landing is dangerous. If we line soldiers up outside the walls my sister is likely to launch wildfire at them,” Tyrion said tightly. “At the best, she decimates our forces-”  


          “That is the best?” Ellaria scoffed.  


          “At worse,” Tyrion continued. “Something happens with the wildfire and King’s Landing burns to the ground, killing hundreds of thousands of people. And make no mistake, Your Grace, somehow, some way, you will be blamed for it. It won’t matter that it was wildfire. It won’t matter that it was my sister that was lobbing barrels of the most volatile substance known to man at her enemies. There are those in Westeros that will blame you and your dragons for the destruction of King’s Landing. If you’re going to be named Queen of the Ashes, you should at least earn it.”  


          Daenerys clenched her fists. “We’ve already discussed this. I will not use my dragons on King’s Landing unless there is no other choice.”  


          “A noble aspiration, Your Grace, but there may be no other choice,” Varys soothed.  


          “The Spider is right,” Ellaria looked like she swallowed poison saying the words. “Cersei will leave you no choice. She’s already used wildfire in her own city, she will have no trouble using it against her enemies. The only question, Daenerys Stormborn, is how quickly do you want this war to end?”  


          Tyrion heaved a breath, eyes darting to the members of her council. “There is another way.”  


          Olenna tore her gaze away from Ellaria Sand and fixed it on him. “Really?” The word was dry as dust.  


          Tyrion shot a glance at Varys. The Spider had his hands hidden in his sleeves as always, expression inscrutable. “It’s the same way I got out of it. There are tunnels.”  


          “Tunnels?” Daenerys repeated.  


          Varys stepped forward. “Yes, Your Grace. I believe some date back to the days of King Maegor. They are likely the reason he had his builders executed, so they would tell no one of the many ways into and out of the Red Keep. Some let out on the beaches to the north. Others to hidden coves at the base of the castle. One or two lead into Maegor’s Holdfast itself, a quick escape for your ancestor should rebellion overtake the city.”  


          Daenerys felt her pulse quicken. There was a way into the Red Keep that avoided wading through the blood of her subjects. “How likely is it these tunnels have remained undiscovered in your absence?”  


          The Spider thought. “Likely Cersei has tried to discover how Tyrion escaped the Black Cells. The ones most likely to be compromised are those that let out onto the beaches. Some can only be accessed if you know how to activate certain levers hidden in walls and staircases frequented by the servants and let out onto the crags. Those are the most likely to remain secure.”  


          “The tunnels let out into several areas of the Red Keep,” Tyrion explained. “I doubt drawing a map would be enough. Someone who knows the ways would have to lead your troops through them, and there is only one person who knows them that well.”  


          Varys opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it, resigned. “I am not a soldier, Your Grace.”  


          “You won’t need to be.” Daenerys walked around the table. “You said you believed that I was the best hope for the people of Westeros, Lord Varys. Your leading my people through the tunnels and into the Red Keep is the best hope we have of taking the capital without massive bloodshed.” She stopped bare inches from him. “I would ask that you be a guide, nothing more. My Unsullied will never leave your side. The danger to yourself would be minimal.” Before he could answer she turned to her Hand. “How many would we need to take the keep?”  


          “When I was Hand there was a standing garrison in the Red Keep of two hundred soldiers, split into three patrol shifts. Their number might be elevated because of the hostilities, but not by very many. The keep wasn’t designed to house many fighting men. Add the household guards of what few nobles are in residence…perhaps 250, at the most.”  


          Daenerys felt the beginnings of joy bubbling in her chest. Finally, after so long waiting, they were poised to take back her family’s throne. “Grey Worm, I want you to choose 200 of your best men and ready them for the assault.”  


          “We should test it before committing any troops, Your Grace,” Tyrion cautioned. “If one man can enter and leave the Red Keep undetected, a thousand can. At the very least, we’ll know if they are being guarded.”  


          “Or we tip our hand and she learns what we are doing.”  


          “So we are to be nothing but your porters, carrying your soldiers from Essos?” Ellaria’s voice was hard.  


          “And the blood spilled when Cersei takes Tumbleton nothing but a distraction?” Olenna added.  


          She breathed deeply and softened her voice. “I will not forget my Dornish friends once I’ve won my crown, nor the sacrifices of the Reach.”  


          Neither woman looked happy with that. No doubt both wanted to play a larger part in the Targaryen restoration. The better with which to ask favors later.  


          “I’ve been sneaking into and out of Blackwater Bay since before I had my first man,” Yara Greyjoy said. “Tell me where these tunnels are, and I’ll get your men to them.”  


          “You and Aurane Waters,” Daenerys informed her. She turned to Varys. “The captain said two cogs, fully crewed, and one hundred men. I’m sure he knows the Blackwater well enough to get our people close.”  


          Yara’s eyes shone. “There’s a new moon in ten days’ time.”

* * *

          There were times when sitting the Iron Throne was nothing but an exercise in self-restraint.  


          Cersei fought the urge to order Ser Strong to rend the two men in front of her limb from limb for daring to bring their petty dispute before her. Lords Meyer Follard and Hanswill Manning had fought over the same thirty acres of land for more than twenty years. It was good farmland to be sure, running along a tributary of the Blackwater Rush, but not worth this kind of enmity. Every other year one dragged the other before the crown to settle the dispute, and every other year neither left satisfied.  


          Lord Meyer insisted and Hanswill’s brother sold the land to him in the months before Robert’s Rebellion. Lord Hanswill argued that any such transaction couldn’t have been made without his approval and that as his brother died fighting for the Targaryens before the deal was finalized the entire venture was invalid. That Lord Meyer had never provided a deed of transfer or bill of sale didn’t seem to phase the fool at all; he believed the Crown should take his word over that of his neighbor. It didn’t help that it was rumored Lord Hanswill’s younger sister was ruined by Meyer during the war and died in her birthing bed, leaving behind a bastard that was the shame of House Manning.  


          After the third time Hanswill insulted Meyer she had enough. “My lords,” Cersei let every bit of her irritation enter her tone. “This argument has gone on for nearly two decades, without proper resolution. As neither of you is willing to concede the land or pay proper restitution for it, the crown has come up with a solution that will benefit everyone.” She should have done this earlier. Seven hells, even her oaf of a husband should have seen this solution when he was drunk enough to stumble into court. “The lands in question will be given in trust to the Crown.”  


          The color drained from Lord Meyer’s stubby face so quickly she would have laughed if the full court weren’t assembled behind them, while Lord Hanswill looked smugly pleased. And he should be. The Crown wasn’t in the habit of releasing lands once they were placed in trust.  


          “You Grace…” Lord Meyer sputtered.  


          “The matter is settled.” Cersei waved them away. “This is the last time you will approach the throne with this matter, Lord Meyer.”  


          Meyer Follard looked like he was going to swallow his tongue, but he managed to control himself long enough to sketch a bow, the blue of his doublet contrasting harshly with his pale skin and red hair. “Your Grace,” he said, before turning sharply.  


          Hanswill watched him go with a small smile before turning back to her. “House Manning thanks you for resolving this issue, Your Grace,” he said as he bowed, sandy-brown hair flopping over his eyes.  


          Cersei brushed his thanks away. She disliked her throne being used to settle petty squabbles that should have been dealt with ages ago. “My Lord.”  


          Once Lord Hanswill stepped away her herald announced another minor Crownland noble. “Lady Lollys Stokeworth and her husband, Lord Wyllis Bracken.”  


          Lollys Stokeworth was short and almost plump, with golden-blonde hair and a pale, heart-shaped face. Her black velvet overdress and pale gold chemise was in a style twenty years out of date, something worn when the Mad King sat the throne. The colors and material were far too rich for her; the black stole what little coloring she had and made her look sickly while the oversized sleeves of the chemise gave her the look of a child playing in her mother’s clothes. The outfit was most likely taken from her mother’s closet for this visit with her queen, and though old looked in good enough repair to not be an embarrassment. Lollys resembled nothing more than the sigil of her house; an innocent lamb dressed for slaughter.  


          Wyllis Bracken sported vibrant red hair that spoke of some Tully in his ancestry and set her teeth on edge, though his eyes were pale green, not blue. The red and gold brocade doublet with gold piping was dangerously close to Lannister colors, though there was enough brown at collar and cuff to forgive it. Where his wife’s face was all open innocence Bracken looked to have swallowed a gallon of seawater when he should be on his knees thanking her. If not for her he would have remained the fourth son of House Bracken with little prospect beyond being a landless knight. Instead, he married into one of the better houses of the Crownlands and stood poised to be its lord once Lady Tanda met her end. A simple wife was a small price to pay for such a rise in stature.  


          “My Lord, my Lady, the crown welcomes you to King’s Landing,” Cersei said. “Though it grieves us that you have come under such circumstances.”  


          Lollys gave a tremulous curtsey, almost falling before her husband caught her elbow.  


          _Silly chit._  


          “House Stokeworth thanks you for your concern, Your Grace,” the girl’s voice was as unsteady as her feet. “I’m sure my sister’s last days were made all the better for receiving such care as can only be found in the capital.”  


          “The Crown is sorry Lady Falyse was unable to recover from her injuries,” Cersei replied, poisoned honey on her tongue. She gestured, and a servant carried a carved casket from behind the throne and presented it to Lady Stokeworth. “She was seen to by the Silent Sisters with all proper rights.”  


          Falyse Stokeworth brought her fate on herself; storming into the capital months ago, crying that House Rosby had fallen into the hands of a usurper, and pressing her claim to Rosby castle and its associated lands. The shrill woman refused to listen to reason and began making demands of the throne, going as far as to threaten to stand in the way of Lollys’s marriage.  


          When the woman fell from her horse while leaving King’s Landing and broke her hip the crown took it upon itself to see to her care. At least, that was the story Cersei wrote Lady Tanda. In truth, Lady Falyse spoke too loud and too long on her due rights and was too adamant that the wedding between her simple-minded sister and Tyrion’s sellsword go through. When she mentioned the problem to Qyburn, he spoke of a method he was perfecting to make others more malleable to suggestion, and Lady Falsyse seemed the perfect test subject.  


          The bones that sat in the box at Lady Stokeworth’s feet were not those of her sister. Some of Qyburn’s experiments caused damage that not even the boiling pots of the Faith could remove. It wouldn’t do for the bones of a lady who spent months in the crown’s care to have such strange afflictions, so she had him take one of the older serving women and hand her over to the sisters. It didn’t matter whose bones they were in the end, so long as the Stokeworths were satisfied.  


          “House Stokeworth thanks Her Grace for seeing to Lady Falyse in her last weeks,” Wyllis gripped his wife’s wrist and moved her back. “It is in thanks to your generosity and to show our undying support that we have brought 100 pike and 300 foot to protect King’s Landing from the foreign invaders.”  


          Cersei smiled. Finally, her lords were acting as they should. “The words of House Stokeworth run true, my lord, my lady.” She looked beyond them. The two soldiers behind Lady Stokeworth and her husband bowed deeply. Their armor at least looked to be in good repair. “Sers, you will coordinate your men with Lord Commander Waters of the City Watch.”  


          They mouthed more platitudes to each other before Lady Stokeworth and her husband retreated to make the trek to their castle to see the bones interred with the rest of her family. The next noble announced by the herald was not someone she expected.  


          Lord Daemon Darkwood, Castellan of House Hayford, was a tall man, almost too tall. Though not nearly the height of the Hound or the Mountain he would have towered over Robert and Jaime both by half a head at least. His doublet and trousers were unrelieved black. The only color he wore was in the silver tree that secured the black sash at his shoulder. Cersei recalled that his wife and child died some years before. A strange man, to hold his mourning for so long.  


          He wore his dark hair long, in gentle waves that brushed his shoulders. He was not a handsome man, his features were too bold for that; his nose too large, cheekbones too high and lips too plush, but the overall effect was not displeasing. A scar cut down his cheek from his temple and vanished into the collar of his doublet, earned during the Rebellion when he was still a squire. He was well-built for his height, broad-shouldered and strong. The lord was known for administering the Hayford lands with a soft hand in the name of his young charge despite his fearsome appearance.  


          Shadowy rumors followed Lord Daemon despite his seemingly gentle nature. Rumors of a temper that once ignited was almost impossible to calm that persisted since his youth. Of a cousin near beaten to death when they were little more than boys during his fostering.  


          “Lord Daemon.”  


          “Your Grace,” Daemon’s voice was deeper than she would have thought, his bow perfect, held for the exact amount of time and no more.  


          Cersei swept her eyes over the assembled lords and ladies. “The Lady Ermesande is not with you?”  


          “She remains at Hayford Castle, Your Grace.” His dark eyes fixed on hers. “She caught a chill, and I feared travel would only make it worse.”  


          She fixed her expression to one of worry. She should be. After all, the girl was her cousin through marriage. “Nothing serious?”  


          “A simple illness, but one I did not wish to push to something greater,” Daemon’s words were clipped. “Our maester says she will recover with enough rest.”  


          She fought not to grind her teeth. The girl couldn’t just die so House Lannister could claim the Hayford lands as was their right. “Then the crown prays for her swift recovery.”  


          Daemon gave a small nod. “House Hayford thanks you for your prayers, Your Grace.”  


          She tapped her fingers on the throne. “We were not expecting you, Lord Daemon. May we ask what brings the regent of House Hayford to King’s Landing during these troubled times?”  


          “We received word of the Targaryen landing and wished to lend our aid to the defense of our country.” The lord drew himself up to his full height. “1000 men: 250 horse, 500 foot, and 250 pike for the defense of the capital against the invading horde. In addition, I have provided food and forage for three months, so my men will not be a burden to the people of King’s Landing.”  


          Cersei thought of the ravens she sent out days ago, calling the lords of the Crownlands and Reach to the capital. With the closeness of Hayford, he might have received it sooner than the others, but it would have taken him time to gather his men. “As always, House Hayford has proven a friend to the crown. We extend our hospitality to you, my lord.”  


          Something shifted behind his eyes, but he gave another exacting bow. “As you will, Your Grace.”

  

          Jaime was tired.  


          It wasn’t an unusual state for him. His early years as a Kingsguard for Aerys seemed to be nothing but a long nightmare of exhaustion and terror. Serving under Robert was easier; the oaf only cared for drinking, tourneys, and sticking his cock in the closest willing hole. Aside from the Greyjoy Rebellion, there wasn’t an uprising worthy of the name in the seventeen years Baratheon sat on the throne, not even an assassination attempt.  


          In the past four years, he’d served as Kingsguard to three monarchs. Joffrey's reign was short and brutal, marked with rumors that made him sound Aerys come again, while Tommen's was too short to know how it would have run. He was absent for much of both of them, but neither could be called peaceful. Now Cersei sat the throne, poised to enter a war with a woman who was nothing short of Aegon the Conqueror come again. When he could sleep it was filled with images of her dying: Executed, her head rolling from her shoulders or bathed in dragon fire.  


          Drowning in wildfire.  


          The only peace he was able to find was in her arms, those fleeting moments when they were one and the rest of the world fell away. Waking in his sister’s bed the next morning was both exhilarating and terrifying. For so long their only time together was in stolen moments; rough fucks in empty rooms and hurried embraces where no one could see or hear. Falling asleep with her in his arms was a paradise he hardly dared let himself imagine. After the first time he refused to deny himself, and every night he marched to the royal chambers, uncaring of who saw. Lions do not concern themselves with the opinions of sheep was something their father was fond of saying. He wondered what Tywin would think of them now.  


          OsmundKettleback and Preston Greenfield stood guard at the entrance to Maegor’s, both giving him the slightest of nods as he passed. After the first morning he was caught in Cersei’s bed by a chambermaid he wondered if they would say anything, but his men were silent. Kettleback had a reputation at every whorehouse in King’s Landing before the Sparrows ran them out, and if Greenfield kept a mistress or to his vows Jaime never bothered to learn. What a man did with his cock was his own business, as far as he was concerned, so long as it didn’t interfere with his duties.  


          He was just clearing the stairs to the royal apartments when one of the servant girls hurried down the hallway, sleeve clutched to the side of her head, her other hand over her mouth. He stopped as she went past him and saw blood pouring from a jagged cut near her ear. The redhead didn’t so much as acknowledge him as she passed. Qyburn exited his sister’s rooms sedately, as he did most things, closing the door with a small sigh before starting down the hall. Jaime was tempted to ask what happened but decided against it. The less he had to deal with the strange little man, the better.  


          “The queen is indisposed,” Qyburn warned as he approached.  


          Jaime shouldered past him. He was starting to hate the old man as much as he hated Pycelle, if for different reasons. Pycelle was his father’s creature, a lecher who acted frail but would have outlived them all even if it took poison to do it. Qyburn spoke softly and smiled constantly, but Jaime heard the screams that came from the Black Cells where the man performed his ‘experiments’. Cersei refused to allow anyone but herself and Ser Strong to venture into the deepest sections that the fallen maester claimed as his own, but living with Aerys taught him well to recognize the scent and sound of terror.  


          Ser Strong was a silent sentinel beside the door. He could have been a propped-up suit of armor for how much he moved unless it was under order of his sister or Qyburn. Cersei claimed Qyburn saved the Mountain from whatever poison Oberyn Martell tipped his spear with, but Jaime doubted Celgane would think of it as being saved. He doubted the man, or what was left of him, thought at all. What skin he could see through his helm was the greyish-green of rotting flesh, and the sweet stench of decay wafted from him. No, ‘saving’ is the last thing he would accuse Qyburn of doing.  


          As he approached the Mountain turned his head, beady black eyes assessing him before he faced forward again. There was no other acknowledgment of his presence. Jaime fought down a shudder of revulsion and knocked twice before opening the door.  


          “I said I wasn’t to be disturbed!”  


          “Cersei.” Jaime stepped into his sister’s quarters. The sitting room was in shambles. A dinner tray was overturned near the door, the contents dripping down the wall near the jamb, plates and bowls shattered beneath it. A chair was overturned, and the remains of a glass lay scattered nearby. His sister stood near the balcony, shoulders heaving, fists clenched. The topmost buttons of her dress were open, revealing her chemise and corset.  


          “What’s happened?”  


          His sister stormed to the table and snatched up a small scroll before all but shoving it into his hands and stalking away. Jaime rubbed a thumb along the remains of the seal, before unfurling it.  


          “’ We know no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark.’ Signed Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall.” He tossed the scroll onto the table. “You’d think they’d know the boy’s name is Snow.”  


          Cersei whirled on him. “Do you think this funny? That this is a game?”  


          “No.” He walked to the door and opened is just enough. Across the hall, a dark-haired girl sat watching the Mountain as she would a pit viper. “There’s a mess in here that needs cleaning,” he told her.  


          “Right away, m’lord.” The girl sprinted down the hall.  


          “It doesn’t matter,” Cersei said. “The Freys are dead, and what remains of Walder’s brood is fighting like rats over control of the Twins. The Blackwoods are the first, but they won’t be the last.”  


          Jaime kept his voice calm. “Tytos Blackwood is an old, bitter man who buried all of his sons in Robb Stark’s war and lost his daughter to fever. He has nothing to lose. Let him hold up in his castle through the winter if that’s what he wants. None of his bannermen will follow. Forbid them from giving him aid. The man barely had enough food to feed his servants when I was there. If he lasts to spring, it will be a miracle.”  


          His sister turned to him, her eyes glittering. “What do you think will happen if we let him live?” she hissed. “Edmure Tully is back in Riverrun. All he needs do is declare for Stark’s bastard and the River lords will follow.”  


          “Edmure’s wife and daughter are safe at Casterly Rock with Aunt Genna,” he felt his temper slipping and impatience crept into his voice. “Edmure Tully is going to sit in Riverrun and do exactly what we tell him, or else the next time he sees his son will be when I catapult the boy over his walls.” He lifted a calming hand. “Declare Edmure Lord Paramount. It restores the family to their seat, calms some of the unrest, and keeps this madness with the Freys from boiling over.”  


          “I should have the pyromancers travel with a legion of our men to Riverrun and burn the castle down,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “Whoever we raise to Lord Paramount can rebuild it or find another seat.”  


          Jaime froze as cold dread worked its way up his spine. His sister stared into the flames dancing in the fireplace; her expression almost vacant. “You can’t mean that,” he whispered.  


          “I mean anything that secures our rule,” she turned to him, eyes wild, teeth bared. “You want me to return a traitor to power while his people plot against the throne? You really are the stupidest Lannister.”  


          A timid knock at the door tore his attention away from his sister. Four chambermaids entered, buckets and brooms in hand. Three started on the mess on the walls and floors while the fourth edged nearer his sister. She watched the girl with glittering eyes, a cat toying with a mouse, before moving away from the shattered glass. In minutes the room was set to rights and the girls scurried away as silently as they entered.  


          Jaime straightened his spine. “What would you have me do then, Cersei? The Targaryen girl is at Dragonstone. The Tyrells are gathering their strength at Highgarden. Our only ally is Euron Greyjoy, and he’s worthless to us on land. Tully can call what’s left of the Riverland banners. I’ll meet them-”  


          “No,” she said quickly. “I need you here. I’ve called the Crownland and Reach lords to the capital. A few have arrived already.”  


          “I saw the Stokeworth and Hayford men.” They looked competent and their commanders kept them in good order, but they weren’t nearly enough. “We’ll need more than 3,000 men to hold King’s Landing. The walls will keep out an army, but that was only if they aren’t melted from underneath our defenders.”  


          Cersei strode to a table and poured herself a goblet of wine. “The bitch won’t use her dragons.”  


          “I’m glad the two of you have discussed strategy,” he couldn’t keep the derision out of his voice.  


          “She won’t risk burning the capital. She wants to rule from the Iron Throne, not melt it to slag.” Cersei rested the goblet against her throat. “Her family built King’s Landing. She’ll try and take it through a siege before anything else. Once her savages show themselves, I’ll have the pyromancers launch wildfire at them. If we’re lucky we can destroy most of her ground forces in the first salvos.”  


          He shook the memory of green flames and screams away. “Which will force her to use her dragons.” On a city teeming with wildfire; whatever his sister had the pyromancers making and what was left from Aerys’s madness.  


          “Qyburn is working on something for them.” Her smile was all teeth. “Apparently she only rides the largest one. All we have to do is kill or injure it enough that it falls from the sky. Either way, she dies and her forces crumble.”  


          “Or the two that are left go wild and burn everything in their path!”  


          His sister stared at him with an expression she normally reserved for Tyrion. “I never took you for a coward.”  


          _And I never took you for a fool, yet here we are._ He wouldn’t turn her from that plan, so he attacked another. “Do you really expect a single lord from the Reach to come to the capital while their liege is in open rebellion?”  


          “There are no Tarly banners in the host gathering at Highgarden. If Randyl Tarly abandons the old cunt half of her bannermen will as well.” She gave him a small smile. “You’ll speak to him when he comes. Offer him Highgarden in exchange for his allegiance.”  


          “That’s if he comes.” He took a step forward.  


          “Randyll Tarly is a military man. He’ll come if only to hear what I have to say.” Her gaze was almost coy. “Even if he plans to stand against us, he won’t be able to resist. What was it father always said? ‘Know your enemy’?”  


          “If he does show, what do you plan on leading with, other than dangling Highgarden in front of him? That everyone who stands in her way is going to die the moment Daenerys Targaryen decides she’s tired of waiting?”  


          “That siding with his queen is his best hope of survival,” Cersei drank deeply from her goblet and set it on the table. “Daenerys Targaryen is bringing Dothraki screamers and Unsullied slaves to our shores and plans on letting them run rampant through the Kingdoms. No holdfast or village will be safe once she makes landfall. I’ll trust Tarly’s self-interest over his loyalty to a withered crone and her dreams of vengeance.”  


          Before he could say anything else Cersei took his head in her hands. “I don’t want to talk anymore,” she whispered, teeth going to his bottom lip.  


          Jaime kissed her, lips harsh, almost punishing. He ripped at her dress, springing the remaining buttons free before pushing the heavy garment off her shoulders. He lost himself in the taste of her, the feel of her hands as she removed his armor as ably as any squire before reaching into his trousers and gripping hot, hard flesh.  


          Later, when she was draped over him, limp with sleep, he found himself unable to rest. He stared up at the canopy of their bed and swallowed past the bile that gathered in the back of his throat. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw virulent green flames, felt heat terrible enough to strip the very air from the room, and heard a hoarse, mad voice chanting three words.  


          _Burn them all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all of my readers! I will catch up on responding to reviews this week. I've just been working on getting this chapter out.
> 
>  
> 
> [Broken Arm ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Broken_Arm)  
> [ Prince's Pass](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Prince%27s_Pass)  
> [Tumbleton](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Tumbleton)  
> [Mander](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Mander)  
> [Lollys Stokeworth](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Lollys_Stokeworth)  
> [Wyllis Bracken](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Wyllis_Bracken)  
> [House Bracken](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Bracken)  
> [House Hayford](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Hayford)  
> [Ermesande Hayford](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Ermesande_Hayford)  
> [House Darkwood](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Darkwood)  
> [Osmund Kettleback](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Osmund_Kettleblack)  
> [Preston Greenfield](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Preston_Greenfield)  
> [Genna Frey](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Genna_Lannister)  
> [Tytos Blackwood ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Tytos_Blackwood)
> 
>  
> 
> There is no way Euron could have built anywhere near 1000 ships. As far as archeologists can figure, it would take anywhere from 2.5-6 months to build a longship [ How Much Labor Did It Take to Construct a Viking Longship](https://attestationupdate.com/2017/05/27/how-much-labor-did-it-take-to-construct-a-viking-longship/). Even if you said that Euron had the entirety of the Ironborn he had felling trees and working on building (which would be odd, since shipbuilding is usually done bu those who actually know what they are doing), it takes about 100 oak trees to make a single ship. At best, Euron had 100 ships in his fleet at max, maybe a few more counting those that were already there, but it seems like Yara took a good amount of his best ships and men. 
> 
> On House Hayford. Though it doesn't give numbers in the books, I'll assume that it is fairly wealthy and can field 1,000 men (my reasoning for this will be explained in later chapters)
> 
> Why doesn't Daenerys call all of the banners that have declared for her? Partly to keep Cersei on her toes, partly because she already has large enough force, and partly because she doesn't really trust the Houses in Westeros. She'll trust the Velaryons and Celtigars somewhat because of shared ancestry, but she's not eager to spread her battleplans out to other houses.


	7. The Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa deals with troubles in Winterfell while Jon deals with his bannermen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for sticking around :) Another long chapter, because when it comes to Jon and Sansa, I apparently get long-winded as hell.
> 
> Storywise, this takes place partially during the two weeks that Daenerys and Co. are waiting on Dragonstone and partially after the war council. 
> 
> And a special shout out to TheDeviantLord for all the wonderful review-convos you fantastic person you! :)

          Sansa dressed carefully, fastening each of the small eyelets of her bodice with care and smoothing her dress over her bust and stomach before examining herself in the polished bronze mirror. She finished the stitching the night before and was pleased to see the hatched pattern fell evenly over her torso. She wrapped her leather belt around herself and synched it in at the waist, the better to accent her figure, though the thought threatened to make her breakfast reappear. Last was her necklace, the long chain secured to a small loop on her skirt so the sharp, heavy needle dangled freely. She decided to forgo her torque with its direwolves as she slung her cloak over her arm. She didn’t need more reminders of her northern roots, not today.  
Winterfell was just waking when she walked out of her chambers. It was early morning, the sun beginning to lighten the eastern sky. The storm that dropped snow on them the day before had blown out, leaving the sky clear, though she heard one of the washerwomen saying another was like to blow in before sunset.  


          Winter was making itself known in the North.  


          Sansa made her way from the family apartments towards the great hall. Normally, she would wait for Jon and they would go to breakfast together, but Jon was gone, riding for Tohrren Square and likely wouldn’t be back for a week or more. Even her shadow was absent as he was most mornings now. Ghost had taken to ranging outside the castle at night and returning midmorning to sleep in whichever room she was in, once quite pointedly laying on her and refusing to get up when she tried to leave. It was no matter, today she had things to accomplish.  


          The great hall was almost empty this time of morning, only the lords of the Vale present. Sansa offered up a pleasant smile as she entered. “Lord Royce.”  


          “Lady Sansa.” The speed with which the men stood would have made her laugh. He bowed.  


          She nodded her head in return. “My lords,” she acknowledged the others before sitting and noted that Lyn Cobray was not among them, though Uther Shett was at the man’s elbow. Petyr was another absent face, and she would have thought he never let the lord of Runestone out of his sight.  


          Sansa gestured to one of the serving girls, Greta, she believed the girl was named. “A slice of black bread, butter, and tea, please,” she ordered.  


          “Right away, m’lady.”  


          “I must say, this is the first time I’ve seen you breaking your fast so early,” Lord Royce commented good-naturedly.  


          Sansa gave him a genuine smile. “My brother and I usually do so together,” she said.  


          “I’m surprised at how late the northern lords stay abed,” A lord whose broach was in the shape of a striking serpent called from the other end of the table. _Lynderly,_ she thought. _Lymond Lynderly, of Snakewood._ “A knight should be early to rise, a king more so.”  


          “The north has few proper knights, Lord Lynderly,” Sansa informed him. There were no northern lords present for good reason. If the Valemen stayed in the North long enough they would learn it wasn’t worth it to stir yourself from your bed before the sun was high if you didn’t have to, not once the true cold set it.  


          “Didn’t your father have a knight as his man-at-arms, my Lady?” Lord Royce asked.  


          “Ser Rodrik.” She could hear the grey-haired man’s voice booming over the yard, yelling at Robb to move his feet. Reminding Bran to pick up his arrows. “He squired with House Caron, I believe. Ser Broden traveled with him to the Isle of Faces so he could say his vows before a heart tree.”  


          “A strange custom, praying to trees,” Roland Waynwood mused, his blonde hair shining in the weak light.  


          “Not so strange, my lord. To northerners, their gods are alive. They hear prayers through the weirwoods, and if you listen carefully enough, you can hear their answers. Many northerners would find it strange to pray to statues hewn from stone.” When she saw his face begin to purple, she relented. “My mother raised us in the light of the Seven, though my father kept the old gods. I suppose it gives me a unique perspective.”  


          “A truly marvelous thing to possess, my Lady.”  


          Sansa half-turned and gave Petyr a tepid smile. “Good morning, my lord.”  


          “Lady Stark.” He sketched a bow before turning to Lord Royce and giving him a mocking smile as he settled across from them. “Lord Royce.”  


          “Lord Baelish.” Royce looked ready to chew sand.  


          Sansa was saved from having to reply by the appearance of her tea and bread. The bread was thickly cut and still warm enough from the oven that the butter melted easily. After Petyr informed Greta of his own choice of meal Sansa turned to Lord Royce. “In truth, my lords, one of the reasons I’m here this early is I wished to speak with you.” She turned back to Littlefinger. “Though I insist the matter wait until you’ve broken your fast, Lord Baelish.”  


          The smallest tick passed over his right eye, there and gone in an instant. “You are generous, my lady,” he replied.  


          “Hardly. The matter isn’t one that requires starving a guest at our King’s table.” She picked up her tea and took a small sip. It was almost too hot, sweetened with just enough honey to make it palatable.  


          Sansa spent the next thirty minutes listening to a discussion with the Vale lords over news from the South. News of Daenerys Targaryen landing at Dragonstone had come, though what she was doing beyond that was anyone’s guess. The woman was rumored to have three dragons, Dothraki screamers and Unsullied slaves willing to die for her, but she did not attack King’s Landing. All she did was sit on Dragonstone, waiting.  


          “If a man had even half the forces it is claimed she possesses, he would have attacked by now,” Lord Royce said. “Her numbers must be false.” He snorted. “And her dragons? A conjurer’s trick. I saw lizard lions dressed as dragons in a mummer’s play as a boy. They weren’t dragons, and neither is whatever creatures she’s dragged from the east.”  


          “It is said that Highgarden and Dorne stand with her,” Petyr added absently, which made Sansa suspicious. Baelish did nothing absently.  


          Sansa drank her tea and said nothing as the lords discussed the legitimacy of the rumors, or if Highgarden was actually mobilizing to place a Hightower or Redwyne on the throne, now that Margaery was dead. She remembered the missives Petyr received from the east while they were in the Vale; tales of the Dragon Queen and the cities she conquered. Of her Unsullied army and Tyrion and Varys both being at her side. The numbers the Vale lords were bandying about might be pure conjecture, but the truth was just as daunting. Daenerys Targaryen was in Westeros to reclaim her family’s throne, and she no doubt had more than enough men to do it. With Tyrion and Varys she had two of the most cunning men Sansa had ever known at her disposal. The only question was why she hesitated.  


          _Cersei would have already destroyed King’s Landing_ , she thought. Cersei would swim through an ocean of blood if it meant gaining power. Daenerys wasn’t willing to sack the capital for her birthright, wasn’t willing to bathe the kingdoms in blood for it. It was something.  


          “Olenna Tyrell is the last of her house, and what threat is Dorne?” Lord Lymond asked. “There can’t be more than fifty thousand people in the entire kingdom.”  


          She buried the desire to roll her eyes by taking a hearty bite of her bread. Many assumed that the North was empty as well. They believed the land too cold and too wild. The Free Folk proved people could survive anywhere they had a will to. She wondered how many soldiers Dorne would surprise Cersei with.  


          “If Olenna Tyrell can muster Highgarden, she’ll have forty thousand troops to whatever rabble she’s brought from Essos,” a lord at the furthest end of the table said, tapping the table with his knife as he spoke. “That’s enough to take King’s Landing.”  


          “I would be surprised if any of the lords follow Olenna.” Petyr wiped his mouth, his plate clean. “She’s an old woman, consumed with seeking vengeance for her house. Enough so that she has brought a foreigner and her army to our shores.” He gave a calming smile. “Then again, these are all rumors, my lords. For all we know the girl landed at Dragonstone with a single ship, three horses, and two servants. That seems far more likely to me than the numbers the traders have been boasting.”  


          An uneasy chuckle went up around the table. The laughter of men who would rather dismiss a thing that confront it and Sansa set her cup down. She would have to speak to Jon when he returned from Torrhen’s Square. She stood. “My lords, if you’ve finished? We’ve much to discuss.”

 

          She claimed the small solar off the library that was once her mother’s. The room was spared damage from Ramsay, no doubt considered unimportant, unworthy of his attentions. The large window let in plenty of sunlight and afforded a view of the forest to the north of Winterfell. Its size also meant it was one of the warmest rooms outside of the lord’s chambers. Brienne was already waiting outside the door as asked. “Lady Stark,” she said with a bow before settling her eyes on the lords who followed. “My lords.”  


          Sansa directed them to the chairs across from her small desk. It was neat, a small map marking out the Gift and New Gift half-hidden beneath a stack of Winterfell’s latest accounts. “Thank you for meeting with me, my lords,” she said once everyone was settled.  


          “When the Lady of Winterfell calls, we are at her service,” Littlefinger answered.  


          Lord Royce gave her the smallest of nods. “It is my pleasure, my Lady.”  


          Sansa picked at the palm of her hand for a moment before settling. “I’ve asked you here for two reasons. The first is to offer thanks from our King for your continued presence in the North. He understands that it is a hardship for both you and your men to continue to winter here, especially with the news coming from the south.”  


          “Rumors,” Lord Royce assured her as he would a child. “I doubt the Targaryen girl has more than a dozen ships and a few slaves she’s managed to buy.”  


          Sansa looked to Petyr. His expression was amused. He knew a great deal he wasn’t willing to say, not in front of the other Vale lords and certainly not in front of Lord Royce. “In any event, the North extends its gratitude.” She took a breath. “My brother has also asked that I extend his apologies, that it has taken so long for him to see to you both. It has only recently come to his attention that you have been seeking to speak with him, Lord Royce.”  


          “I’ve attempted to arrange an audience with King Jon for the past several weeks,” his voice was full of censure. “Without a proper seneschal, it is near impossible.”  


          “You will have to forgive us, my lord." She sat up straighter. “Things are far more informal in the North. I understand you wish to approach my brother through proper channels, but you would have had much more luck voicing your concerns to him in the yard.”  


          Royce looked scandalized at the thought, and that was exactly what she wanted.  


          “Our king understands that he is not the most well-versed in such matters,” she continued. “With the North in the state it is in he has very little time to see to anything but the most pressing matters, and he hopes he has not offended you and the knights of the Vale with his neglect. With things as they stand, he has asked me to see to the concerns of our southern guests.”  


          “Can we assume you speak for King Jon?” Baelish asked.  


          “In some matters, yes.” His eyes brightened. “In others, I would require his permission.”  


          Royce’s expression was neutral. “And which matters are those, my Lady?”  


          “He has left it up to my discretion, my lords. But he has given me great latitude while he puts the North to rights.”  


          “King Jon must trust you a great deal,” Baelish pressed.  


          Sansa gave him an empty look. “He has every reason to, my Lord. He knows I would do nothing to endanger the North. His main concern is the influx of smallfolk at many of the castles, more and sooner than the lords anticipated. The Boltons cared for nothing but bleeding our people of what wealth they could, and with winter here the situation is critical. Common wisdom holds that a long winter follows a long summer, and this summer has been the longest in living memory.”  


          Lord Royce scoffed. “Certainly, this is a problem that can be dealt with by his lords.”  


          “Our King takes a more hands-on approach to such things, Lord Royce. Nor does he wish for any of his lords to feel overwhelmed or forgotten. A misstep now could mean the death of hundreds, even thousands of his people in the months and years ahead.”  


          Petyr’s smile would have been kind if it made it to his eyes. “Our King has a soft heart, my lord,” he ran a finger under his lip. “He should be commended for it.”  


          “Jon has always been kind,” Sansa said fondly before looking between them.  


          “I can understand how the rigors of ruling would be difficult for King Jon." Condescension was clear in Lord Royce's every syllable. “One can hardly expect a bastard to rule with ease. It is good he has you, my Lady, to instruct him.”  


          Sansa bowed her head. “I help where I can, my lord.”  


          There was a knock at the door, and a servant girl entered with a tray of mugs and a kettle of hot cider.  


          “I understand you wished to speak to our King, Lord Royce. Perhaps it is a matter than I can settle to everyone’s satisfaction?”  


          Lord Royce drew himself up in his chair. “As you will, my Lady. The most pressing question is a matter of land concessions if you feel this is an area in which the king will allow you to negotiate?”  


          His tone said land concessions were a subject her brother would never allow her to speak for him in. She took great pleasure in giving him her most placid expression. “Please continue.”  


          “Many of my men hoped for holdings in the North as a reward for their bravery in the reclaiming of Winterfell.” He reached for a cup and gestured for the maid to fill it.  


          Bravery. As if mowing down rats were bravery. “The Starks will be forever grateful for the Vale’s assistance in helping us reclaim our home,” Sansa let every bit of sincerity fill her voice. “But allotting lands in winter is a fool’s errand, my lord. As this is such a delicate time for the North, land concessions to the knights of the Vale should be postponed until the spring thaw, so we can better assess the state of the kingdom.”  


          “Surely deeds could be given and reviewed once spring is upon us,” Petyr argued, waving the girl away.  


          She turned to Baelish. “If I may ask, my lords, how many of the knights of the Vale plan to remain in the North to oversee these lands?”  


          That question caught Royce off-guard. If Baelish was unprepared for it, it didn’t show. “I imagine a few of the younger men would be more than happy if it meant becoming landed,” he answered.  


          “That happiness might wither in the face of true winter.” She turned her gaze to the window. “This is only the beginning. I was very young during the last one, but the snows fell so thick that we had to open the worm ways below the castle just to move between the outbuildings.”  


          “Worm ways?” Royce asked, confused.  


          “Tunnels,” Sansa clarified. “They are used only in winter. Most proper towns and castles have them. Mole’s Town could only survive through winter because the people move completely underground.”  


          She stayed quiet for a moment. Northern winters were legendary, even without the threat from beyond the Wall. Snows that fell dozens of feet thick, that buried whole villages beneath a thick layer of white were not uncommon. There were stories of families found frozen in their tracks as they tried to journey between villages. She remembered one of Old Nan’s scarier tales, about a Lady a thousand years ago whose lover dallied with a servant girl. When the young man left to go hunting the woman had the poor girl dragged into the main bailey and ordered water poured on her until she froze to death, then had her posed and set atop a fountain. The girl stayed that way for years, skin pale blue, until the spring thaw.  


          Valemen knew winter. The high mountain passes were unforgivable once it set in. She also knew many of them came down from their mountains and spent the harshest years in the Vale itself, shutting up their manses and castles. Even the Arryns abandoned the Eyrie for the Gates of the Moon. Valemen knew winter, but no one but Northmen and Free Folk knew how bitter it could be.  


          “And those lords that do not plan to relocate, who plan to only administer lands from afar, I fear that may prove difficult for them.” Sansa gave a small, apologetic smile. “Northerners are not open to change, my lords. The concept of a lord in absentia is foreign. Finding smallfolk to work a holding without a lord present in the North will be difficult, if not impossible.” Not entirely true. The smallfolk would most likely revert to having their grievances dealt with by the Lord of Winterfell, but neither Royce nor Baelish needed to know that.  


          “I’m sure that with the proper incentive, smallfolk could be found to work such holdings,” Petyr said.  


          “Being allowed to retain a greater share of their grain, perhaps,” Royce offered.  


          “Perhaps. There is also a question of which lands would be on offer. There is good land in the North that is unclaimed, but without knowledge of how many smallfolk will survive and how they will be dispersed, Jon fears granting your knights an area that will largely be abandoned, isolated from trade routes and therefore difficult to maintain. There are vast tracks of the kingdom that are uninhabited or near enough to it even before the war. If the smallfolk that occupy such areas die in the coming years, it would be rewarding the bravery of the knights of the Vale with empty holdings. In any event, once again we would have to wait until the Spring Census to know how our numbers stand.”  


          Neither Baelish nor Lord Royce looked pleased with her words, but she knew neither could argue her assessment. Push to distribute lands now, and they might have problems later when their knights and minor lords complained of being misled.  


          It was Petyr who made the decision. “It seems we will have to bow before your superior knowledge, my Lady,” he conceded with good grace.  


          “I would ask that you speak to your men on our behalf and explain why King Jon has put off granting lands. It was not meant as a slight to the Vale in any way, my lords.”  


          Royce reared back. “No one has said such a thing, my lady.”  


          Sansa raised a placating hand. “I’m glad to hear it.”  


          The next four hours were spent dealing with smaller concerns, from organizing regular food and fodder shipments from the Vale to supplement Lord Royce’s men (who were transporting their goods overland due to a disagreement with the Manderlys that she would have Jon deal with, when carrying them upriver via sled was more efficient) to solidifying the rotation of men within the camps and barracks. There were times she felt her hand drifting to the needle at her waist for comfort, especially when Petyr would try and back her into a corner when it came to Jon and his decisions. There were larger issues, such as the manning of the Dreadfort and the establishment of a garrison at Moat Cailin among others, that she promised to bring to Jon’s attention.  


          It was nearing noon when she decided to call for a break. “Thank you, my lords, for bringing these matters to our attention.” She gathered up her notes. She and Jon would pick them apart later and try to suss out Littlefinger’s schemes.  


          “Forgive me, my Lady, but we haven’t discussed the other worries your brother believes are coming.”  


          Sansa felt her pleasant expression freeze at Petyr’s words. She set the pages down. “I wasn’t aware anything needed to be discussed.”  


          “Then you believe him?” Lord Royce sounded stunned. “I wouldn’t have thought you would believe such stories, my Lady.”  


          “My lords.” Sansa folded her hands. “There was a time when I would say that’s all it was…stories to frighten children. There was also a time I would say giants were nothing but legend, then Wun Wun helped us retake Winterfell.”  


          “Giants are one thing, Lady Sansa.” Petyr leaned back in his chair. “White Walkers another entirely.”  


          “They are,” she allowed. “This isn’t something that has only just begun, my lords. Rangers began disappearing when they went beyond the Wall years ago. My father executed a deserter before we went to King’s Landing who swore that the White Walkers were real, that they killed his fellow rangers. He did so until the moment my father removed his head.  


          “A year later Joer Mormont led 300 men of the Night’s Watch north to discover what was happening, and a bare handful of men made it back. To a man, they all said the same thing: that they were attacked by dead men at the Fist of the First Men, led by creatures made of ice. King Jon was one of the few who made it back.” She reached into her desk and pulled out a scroll that she had Wolkan find among Maester Luwin’s records and handed it to Littlefinger. He unfurled it and skimmed over the contents before handing it to Royce. “Maester Aemon sent that scroll to every lord, lady, and claimant to the throne in Westeros nearly four years ago. My brother tells me he served at the Wall for eighty years. I can’t believe he would send such a message unless it was the truth. As Lord Commander, our King let Free Folk through the Wall for the first time in history to save them from what he saw. That is more than tales to frighten children in their beds, my lords.”  


          Lord Royce paled slightly as she spoke. She knew some of the lords refused to believe Jon, refused to believe the Free Folk. It was time they understood what was at stake. “Our King doesn’t have his lords searching their libraries and lands for dragonglass as a hobby to entertain them through the winter. The Night’s Watch needs to be armed if they are to have any hope of turning the enemy back.”  


          “And your plan, should the Wall fail to stop the White Walkers?”  


          “To fight, my lord,” her voice was steel. “The realms of men were able to turn them back once. We will turn them back again. We can only pray that the threat remains beyond the Wall and that all our preparations will be precautions, nothing more.”  


          There was a heavy knock on the door before Brienne entered. “Forgive me, my Lady, but you wished to be notified when Lord Cerwyn arrived.”  


          _Perfect timing._ Sansa stood. “If you will excuse me, my lords.”  


          After Baelish and Royce shuffled out Brienne entered. Sansa assessed her sworn sword. “You are very good at that.”  


          From Brienne’s expression, butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “One thing about having a daughter who loved swords more than dolls was I could always be counted on to have some scrape that needed seeing to, especially when my father wished a meeting to end on his terms.” She bowed. “My Lady.”

* * *

          Jon remembered when his father traveled to Torrhen’s square years before the war broke out. Both he and Robb begged to accompany him. Robb argued that as the future Warden of the North it was his duty to learn his domain, and there was no better way to do so than by seeing it firsthand. Jon simply said he wished to spend time with him.  


          In the end, only Theon accompanied their father, and for months he wouldn’t stop talking about the castle and the port city beneath it. He was especially detailed on the brothels and the women there, recounting all kinds of perversions when they were supposed to be about their duties. It was soon after that he convinced Robb to visit the brothel in Winter Town, and the two of them did so regularly until their father found out and put a stop to it on Robb’s part.  


          The Torrhen’s Square Theon recounted was a bustling port, barges and small ships running into and out of the docks, the city three times the size of Winter Town. Perhaps at the height of summer, the traffic on the Tinted Lake was greater, but there were few barges that he could see and only one ship slowly pulling into port. The city beneath the castle was larger than the settlement outside Winterfell, to be sure, and according to Brandon Tallhart, the city’s master, the port was recovering apace from the damage done by the Boltons and Ironborn. What fascinated Jon most was the color of the waters: a cloudy, bright blue-green that gave the lake its name. In a few hours the color would deepen, and by morning would be clear. The first night he asked the maester what caused it and was told the order believed the change had something to do with the sediments of the lake.  


          “I would expect to see waters like those off Dorne, not here,” Davos said when he stopped next to him.  


          “Has Master Tallhart reconsidered?”  


          He felt more than saw Davos shift his weight. “Do you really need me to answer that?” When Jon didn’t respond he sighed. “In light of your…suggestion, Master Tallhart has decided to dedicate all the men he can spare to felling trees and what woodworkers and shipwrights he has to making barges.”  


          He hadn’t meant to lose his temper. When they were first received by Brandon Tallhart he thought things would go smoothly. The master of the port city had ignored the raven to declare for House Stark before the battle with Ramsay, but he did come to Winterfell and added his voice to declare him King in the North. He did not expect the man to all but laugh in his face when he explained the reason for his visit.  


          _“Barges?”  
_

_Jon gave the man a level stare. “Yes, Master Tallhart. As many as can be made. With runners, so they can glide on the ice.”  
_

_The laugh the man gave out made Jon clench his jaw. Brandon Tallhart was five years older, with the stubborn jaw and small eyes that marked all his family. “We have twenty or so already, Your Grace, and never have we needed more than ten in winter.”  
_

_“Good. The twenty you have will be kept at the docks until they are needed.”  
_

_“You want me to hold all trade on the lake until when, Your Grace?”  
_

_“Forgive me, Master Tallhart, but I wasn’t aware there was a large amount of trade going on between the North and the rest of the kingdoms, with what’s been happening down south,” Davos interrupted smoothly. “You’ve no ships in port, and the few barges are carrying light loads.”  
_

_Tallhart snapped his mouth shut, his expression going mulish.  
_

_“I explained already, my lord. If the White Walker’s breach the Wall, Torrhen’s Square and White Harbor are our best chance to evacuate our people at speed.”  
_

_“The Wall has stood for 8,000 years.”  
_

_“Aye,” Jon could feel his temper fraying. “And with luck, it will stand for 8,000 more, but I won’t rest the lives of my people on luck. I’ve seen what’s coming for us.” He leaned forward. “Perhaps you should as well.”  
_

_Tallhart’s face fell. “Your Grace?”  
_

_“I had a letter from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea before coming here. Things are stirring above the Wall there, and as I’ve the only Valerian steel, they are waiting for me to arrive to proceed. I would like to you accompany me.” Tallhart’s eyes bulged. “A man should see the Wall at least once in his life. Do you agree, Ser Davos?”  
_

_His Hand gave him a sidelong glance. “It is a sight, Your Grace.”  
_

_“I spent near a year of my life above the Wall, Master Tallhart, and saw things that you wouldn’t believe. A few weeks should be enough to convince you of why this is necessary.” Jon stood. “We’ll plan to leave for Winterfell in two days’ time, then to White Harbor. That should be enough to make whatever arrangements you need.” He didn’t give Tallhart a chance to form a response.  
_

          Jon turned to his Hand. “How many do you think he could make in two months?”  


          “Not as many as you want.”  


          Jon closed his eyes and looked back to the lake. The ship had finally pulled in and was furling its sails. “Maester Marl said it could take that long for the ice to thicken enough to safely travel the full distance to Saltspear.”  


          “That gives us time to start moving some of the women and children here, then.”  


          Two months. For all he knew the Wall could fall tomorrow, and they weren’t prepared.  


          “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who broods half as much as you do,” Davos said lightly. “Especially at your age.”  


          A laugh burst from Jon’s chest, so harsh it almost hurt. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”  


          “I don’t doubt it.”  


          “I feel like I’m failing, Davos.”  


          His Hand looked at him, puzzled. “Failing who?”  


          “You. Sansa. The North. Everything is moving too slowly, and it’s not enough.”  


          Davos moved to stand in front of him, a peculiar expression on his face. “Do you remember what I told you when the Red Woman brought you back? You said you failed then. The way I see it, you went from a bastard with nothing to your name to a man of the Night’s Watch. From a sworn brother to Lord Commander. Sure, those bastards killed you, but you came back. You gave up being Lord Commander and became the man who reclaimed Winterfell. You went from that to King in the North.” Davos grabbed his shoulder and gave him a firm shake. “If you think that’s failing, Jon Snow, go fail again. You just might save the world.”

* * *

          She managed to avoid Petyr for four days after their meeting, partly through design, partly through the sheer amount of work that was required to keep Winterfell running. There were appointments to see to still, work to be done, letters to answer from all corners of the North in Jon’s absence. Half her days were shut up with Maester Wolkan going over ledgers and debating which supplies were absolutely necessary and which they could afford to put off, much as Jon had before he left. The other half she was with the smallfolk discussing their needs, or desperately trying to find a moment to simply breathe. She often found herself marveling at the memory of her mother and father. Lord and Lady Stark made everything look so easy when she was a child.  


          “You handled Royce well.”  


          Sansa didn’t alter her stride as she made her way from the kitchens, the keys to the spice pantry in hand, the accounting book under her arm. Cinnamon and clove clung to her skirts, as well as the clean, sharp scent of mint and the bite of cubeb. Their barrels and bunches of dried herbs were holding up well compared to other years, and she kept a strict accounting, making sure that the cooks used only what was necessary. The glass for the glass gardens has yet to arrive, and without the gardens up and producing both of them feared for what would happen in the future.  


          “Lord Royce needed reassurance, not handling,” she corrected, pocketing the keys.  


          “One and the same, when it comes to men such as Royce,” Petyr kept pace with her as she made their way through the twisting servant’s halls and out into the cold evening air.  


          She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Taking her weekly accounting of the pantry was enough to set her head to hurting if she stayed in the room for too long. There were too many scents in too small a space, and each container had to be opened, examined, and where possible weighed. When she felt cold wetness on her face, Sansa opened her eyes. Fat snowflakes fell slow but steady, the muddy pathways almost covered with them. “It should have been taken care of much sooner.”  


          “No matter the timing it was well done. Very well, since your brother has avoided speaking to any lord born south of the Neck or informing anyone of his plans to leave Winterfell.”  


          “I wasn’t aware we were required to inform you of His Grace’s movements.” Her voice was as frigid as the air around them as she started towards the doors to the great hall, keeping close to the stone walls of the keep. It was her idea for him to simply leave for Torrhen’s Square with the men he needed, the better to keep Littlefinger from scheming. “There is business in the North that needed seeing to, and he chose to do so himself.”  


          “He is a king,” Petyr agreed. “A king does as he likes. Robert was rather fond of doing the same; leaving the most pressing matters at the heart of his kingdom to others and disappearing with no notice. He also had a Small Council to see that his kingdom continued to function in his absence.”  


          Sansa stopped walking and gave Baelish a level look. “My brother isn’t lost in some Winter Town brothel or drinking himself to death while hunting in the Wolfswood,” she said before continuing on her way. “Jon doesn’t understand politics,” she huffed after a few steps. “He understands fighting. He understands war. We both feel those are the areas he should focus on.”  


          “Your half-brother is a blunt instrument,” Petyr voice was full of concerned commiseration. “Good for winning a crown. Not so good for keeping one.”  


          “Jon didn’t win his crown.”  


          “No, he didn’t. He was given it, like Robb. A rare thing to hear of once in a lifetime, let alone twice.”  


          “The North believes in him.”  


          “Do you?”  


          Sansa stopped again. They were at the edge of the main bailey. The light from the lit braziers was almost blinding, illuminating the people as they went about their way, finishing the day’s work so they could huddle in the warmth of the castle for the night. A few bowed when they noticed her, but most were too busy with their chores to notice.  


          “Jon Snow is honorable,” his words were hushed. “He is a good man, like his father, but good men don’t last long in this game. We both know what happens to them.”  


          _The North isn’t like the south._ The words stuck in her throat.  


          “Daenerys Targaryen has landed at Dragonstone,” Petyr waited until she turned to face him to continue. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to tell you myself. From what I understand she has tens of thousands of Dothraki and thousands of Unsullied, as well as the full support of Highgarden and Dorne. The Crownlands are fractured after what Cersei did at Baelor, the Stormlands can do nothing but brace for what’s to come. The Westerland army will fall with King’s Landing and the Riverlands have been raped and pillaged. Once she wins her throne, she will set her sights on the rest of the kingdoms. The North is one of those kingdoms.”  


          “So is the Vale.” She started walking again. “Is there something else you wished to discuss, Lord Baelish?”  


          “Sansa.”  


          There was something plaintive in his tone, something she didn’t recognize. She stopped again and turned to face him.  


          “I apologize if I’ve said or done anything to offend you, my Lady,” Petyr said. The self-satisfaction was gone, replaced by what might have been genuine concern. “I’ve only ever wanted to help you, you know that.”  


          _You’ve only ever wanted to control me._ “You’ve done nothing to apologize for, Lord Baelish,” she gentled some of the steel in her voice. “I was not dissembling when I said I was busy. Running Winterfell requires my full attention, and with Jon gone, I have little help.”  


          “Perhaps I can be of some assistance?” He took a small step forward. “I do have experience in such matters.”  


          She would burn Winterfell to the ground herself before she let him so much as gain control of the privies. “I can manage, my lord.”  


          “I’m sure.” He took another step. “Just know that I am here if you need me.”  


          A growl from behind her forced Petyr to retreat several steps. Ghost padded to her side, and she laid a hand on his back.  


          “The king’s direwolf doesn’t like me very much, does he?” Petyr watched the direwolf as if the animal would pounce at any moment.  


          “Ghost doesn’t like anyone very much, except Starks.”  


          “My Lady?”  


          Brienne’s voice cut through the night.  


          Sansa looked over her shoulder. Brienne stood near the brazier in the center of the bailey, hand on her sword, eyes on the shape of Petyr in the shadows. She turned back to him. “I wish you good evening, Lord Baelish.”

 

          Jon was tired.  


          It was a hard ride back from Torrhen’s Square, but he pushed himself and his men to make it in almost half the time it should have. The sun was down when they rode through the gates of Winterfell, and he was grateful that no one was waiting for him. He wanted food, a bath, and rest, in that order.  


          He was able to get the food and bath.  


          The servants were carrying away his tub when Sansa appeared at his door. He eyed the flagon and horn she carried. “Is it that bad?”  


          She walked past him and into his room.  


          The ale was forgotten as Sansa told him what she spent the fortnight dealing with. The daily running of Winterfell was as he expected. Their people were settling into their roles and adjusting, some with more ease than others. He grimaced when she summarized the missives. It was her conversations with Royce and Baelish that had him reaching for her offering.  


          “They were most concerned about sending men to man Moat Cailin and securing land for those who fought to reclaim Winterfell.”  


          “The crannogmen hold the Neck, they always have.” He received a raven not three days after he was crowned signed by Lord Howland Reed of Greywater Watch, congratulating him and swearing his allegiance. Their father always said the Reeds knew what you were doing a day before you decided to do it yourself. “Did either explain their sudden interest in fortifying the North?”  


          “There is news that Daenerys Targaryen landed at Dragonstone while you were away. The Vale lords have been speaking of little else when they break their fast.”  


          Jon poured himself a generous cup of ale. “Did they say anything useful?”  


          “That she has 200,000 Dothraki and plans to slaughter everyone in the Seven Kingdoms, or close enough to it.” Sansa sighed. “Either that or she’s bluffing and has no one at all. Petyr believes she has Highgarden and Dorne with her.”  


          He took a drink before staring into the cup. “And her dragons?”  


          “A mummer’s farce, according to Lord Royce.”  


          Jon shook his head. It was amazing, how someone could convince themselves of a thing simply because they didn’t wish to believe the truth. “They think she conquered Slaver’s Bay with kind words?”  


          “Lizard lions, I believe he said.”  


          He handed the cup to Sansa, who took it without a word and drank. “So now we have a Targaryen with three dragons to contend with and Cersei. I suppose it’s too much to hope that she’ll kill the queen and leave us be?”  


          His sister sighed. “Neither of us is that fortunate.”  


          “And their knights? How did you convince the Valemen to wait until spring?”  


          Sansa beamed. “By telling the truth. I’ve bought us a few years, at least.”  


          Neither of them wanted southron politics to make its way north of Moat Cailin and granting land to Vale knights would be the beginning. Jon was not averse to it, provided the men moved North to their claims. They needed men to help rebuild their people after the wars, and Valemen were known for their honor as well as their bravery. In a few generations, their families could be counted on to be as loyal as any other. What they both worried over was those who were granted lands but would choose to oversee them from the Vale.  
Jon stared into the fire. “This could all be a waste of time. The Night King could kill us all and then none of this would matter.”  


          He yowled at the yank on his ear and stared wide-eyed at his sister.  


          She stared at him, just as wide-eyed. “Robb- Robb used to hit you when he thought you were brooding too much,” she stammered.  


          He rubbed the soreness away. “If you pull my ears as much as he punched me, they’ll be down to my knees by next year.”  


          “Then don’t give me reason to.”  


          First Davos, now Sansa. “Is there any good news?”  


          “Despite words of Daenerys landing none of the lords are suggesting returning to the Vale. When I spoke to Littlefinger and Lord Royce both wanted to bring more Valemen North before the storms make the King’s Road impassible.”  


          Jon frowned. “And the reason?”  


          “Lord Royce wants to call more of his men from the Vale to man the Dreadfort.”  


          “Royce? Or Baelish?”  


          “Petyr,” She handed the cup back. “It doesn’t matter if Royce is the one saying it. His nose wrinkles whenever he has to say something Littlefinger’s ordered as if he’s smelled something bad.”  


          More southron politics. “Royce can’t stand Littlefinger, so what hold does the man have on him?”  


          “Baelish is Regent in the Vale until Robyn comes of age.”  


          “It’s something else,” Jon pressed. “Royce looks like he wants to knife him half the time. The other half like he would throw him off the Broken Tower if only he could be pardoned for it.”  


          “Petyr has something on everyone,” Sansa said slowly. “And if he doesn’t, it’s only because he’s finding something.” She gave him a speaking look.  


          Jon huffed. “I’m a man with no secrets, Sansa. I’ve spent almost every moment since I left Winterfell fighting at the Wall or fighting above the Wall.” He leaned towards her. “Anyway, you’re Lady of the Dreadfort by law. It’s your decision what’s done with the castle.”  


          The ale curdled painfully in her stomach. She swore to herself she would never set foot in the Bolton stronghold. She would bite through her own tongue first. “Tear it down.” The words were barely a whisper.  


          “Then that’s what we’ll do. As soon as the thaw begins. As for Moat Cailin, Howland Reed’s men have already seen to it.” Not that a southron army would march on the North in winter. Even Cersei wasn’t that mad.  


          “How was Torrhen’s Square?”  


          Jon poured himself another drink before launching into his meeting with Master Tallhart. By the time he finished Sansa was clutching at her skirts, face pensive. 

          “None of the lords would dare speak that way to father.”  


          “They wouldn’t.” Jon ran a hand through his hair. “You know, I was joking when I compared being king to Lord Commander.”  


          “How long did it take before your first beheading?”  


          “My only beheading, and less than a week.” He could still remember the expression on Slynt’s face as he knelt, the desperation. _I’m afraid. I’ve always been afraid._ It wasn’t the first time he killed a man, but it was the first time he did so because his office demanded it.  


          Sansa gave him a soft, sad look. “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”  


          “So do I.” He didn’t know what to do with his lords. They gave him his crown, he felt they should have a voice in how the North was run, but Sansa was right. There was an undercurrent of disrespect in many of them. They treated him like a green boy, and it had to stop. “How do you think Robb got them under control?”  


          “Grey Wind bit off two of the Greatjon’s fingers.”  


          Jon started laughing.  


          “It’s true,” Sansa said. “I was reading some of the ravens between mother and Maester Luwin. She heard about it after she joined him in the south and couldn’t believe it. Umber pulled a knife on Robb, and Grey Wind just did it without warning. It was the last time anyone challenged him so blatantly.”  


          He thought for a moment, then sighed. “Ghost would probably take a man’s hand, the size he is.”  


          Her eyebrow ticked. “Can you make sure it’s not his sword hand?”  


Jon closed his eyes. This was what he and his sister had come to; half-jesting about using Ghost to maim a man to solidify his control over his lords.  


          It was late when Sansa left for her own rooms, the flagon long since empty, later still when he managed to fall asleep. He dreamed of running through the Wolfswood, his legs carrying him soundlessly over the snow, the scent of pine and deer and something filling his chest to bursting, something he wouldn’t stop running after until he found it.  


          When Maester Wolkan presented him with the scroll sealed with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen the next morning, he swore the way Ygritte taught him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I know the story is wordy, but next chapter we get a taste of action :) Then more wordiness. 
> 
>  
> 
> [ Torrhen's Square](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Torrhen%27s_Square)  
> [ Lymond Lynderly](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Lymond_Lynderly)  
> [ House Lynderly](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Lynderly)  
> [ House Caron](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Caron)  
> [ Roland Waynwood](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Roland_Waynwood)  
> [Lizard Lion](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Lizard-lion)  
> [ House Hightower](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Hightower)  
> [ House Redwyne](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Redwyne)  
> [ Gates of the Moon](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Gates_of_the_Moon)  
> [ Crannogmen](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Crannogmen)  
> [ House Reed](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Reed)
> 
>  
> 
> The name of the lake Torrhen's Square sits on isn't named in the books, as far as I know, but I imagined it is a marl lake like Little Limestone Lake in Manitoba. 
> 
> On Jon cursing... I can see Ygritte teaching him all kinds of swear words and phrases in the Old Tongue that just don't translate to Common but would be perfect for the moment.


	8. Night Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Assault on the Red Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello.
> 
> I apologize for the long wait for this chapter, but here it is finally. Thanks for everyone who has left reviews and has stuck it out this far!
> 
> Any recognizable dialogue is lifted or cribbed from the show.

          Daenerys settled at the head of the Painted Table, her face calm and her hands pressed hard to the arms of her chair to ease their slight trembling. Her war council was greatly diminished today. Only she, Tyrion, Varys, and Grey Worm were present. The information they were about to discuss was priceless, and allies or no, she would not have it fall into anyone else’s hands. Highgarden, Dorne, and the Iron Islands were her friends now. There was no telling what they would be in the years or generations to come.  


          The map spread out before her was wide enough to cover the width of the table. It was discolored at the edges, though the colors near the center were still bright. Missandei scoured the library and found the detailed map of the Red Keep as viewed from above the day before, drawn by a Maester Urwyn over one hundred years ago in beautiful detail if the name and date in the corner were true. Both her Hand and Master of Whispers insisted little had changed in the Keep during that time except for a terraced extension of the royal gardens.  


          “The least likely entrance to be compromised is one that lets out below the Red Keep among the crags.” Varys pointed to a spot below the castle, where the cliffs were drawn in jagged, almost vertical lines. “It is all but invisible from the bay, the opening itself only large enough for a single man to slip through at a time. It lets into a series of sea caves and tunnels that lead to undercrofts that have been abandoned for decades. There are artifacts there from the reign of Aegon III if you know where to look. In all the years I’ve used them, the only footprints I ever saw were mine and the rats.”  


          Daenerys stared at the spot. “We’ll use that as our staging area, then. How many men can it hold?”  


          He thought for a moment. “The area is large. I imagine at least a hundred before we began to feel crowded, perhaps more. There is a short corridor at the top of a stair and a hidden door that cuts the section off from the lower basements.”  


          “And is there likely to be anyone there?” Daenerys asked. “Servants or guards?”  


          “Robert Baratheon had the dragon skulls moved there after he took the throne.”  


          She blinked. “I thought he would have had them smashed to dust.” Robert Baratheon’s hatred of anything associated with her family was well known. She imagined he would have burned the Red Keep to the ground if he were able.  


          “Baratheon was many things, but he understood the importance of symbols, Your Grace. Even left forgotten in a basement, the dragon skulls could provide a useful reminder to the realm.”  


          Her eyes hardened. “That he reduced the most powerful family Westeros hasever known to skeletons moldering in the dark.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her words. In truth, her own kin did the better part of that themselves. Robert Baratheon only struck what he thought was the death-blow.  


          “If we make it that far there are many false walls operated by levers that lead to Maegor’s tunnels.” Varys produced thin pages from the sleeve of his brocade robe, each containing hand-drawn maps of stairs and narrow passages. “The one closest to the stairs lets out into the servant’s corridors behind the throne room.” He pointed to the first drawing, then the second. “Another branches off, with one passage leading to the keep’s barbican and another to the White Sword Tower. The most important leads to Maegor’s Holdfast, the most secure section of the Keep.” His hand hovered over two pages, slightly overlapping each other so their lines were near seamless. “There are three passages that let into it. The first opens into a servant’s corridor near the Queen’s gardens. The second at the end of the hallway that houses the King’s chambers, the third enters the chamber itself. Cersei has claimed them since declaring herself queen.”  


          “Will she be alone?” Grey Worm stepped forward, dark eyes examining the drawings.  


          “From what my little birds tell me, she spends most nights there with her brother,” Varys answered. “The door is always guarded by Ser Strong when she is in residence.”  


          Daenerys looked up. “Ser Strong?”  


          “A beast of a man, over seven feet tall with the strength of ten men, if the rumors are to be believed.”  


          Tyrion frowned. “That sounds suspiciously like the Mountain.”  


          “It does indeed, my friend. Though the Crown was quite adamant that Gregor Clegane was killed by Oberyn Martell’s poison after your trial by combat.” Varys folded his hands into his sleeves. “My birds have been unable to discover the truth one way or the other. The man neither sleeps nor takes off his armor. His room in the White Sword Tower is never used.”  


          Daenerys turned to her commander. Grey Worm didn’t seem disturbed by this information even though she was sending him to fight something that sounded more monster than man. “You wish to lead the assault on Cersei’s chambers?”  


          He looked at her. “I will make sure the false queen is taken.”  


          Varys didn’t miss their byplay. “I would suggest you take a large contingent of men, Grey Worm. The Mountain was difficult enough to deal with before whatever was done to him. I once saw him cut off a destrier’s head with a single swing of his sword.”  


          “Don’t let his size fool you.” Tyrion looked pensive. “If it is the Mountain, he is faster than he looks. Faster than he should be.”  


          Grey Worm’s expression did not waver. He gave a single nod, their warnings taken. “And the rest of the guardians?”  


          “Gone are the days of Arthur Dayne and Barristan Selmy.” Tyrion shook his head. “The best swordsman there in terms of skill is my brother Jaime, and he’s short his sword hand. Your soldiers should make quick work of them, but I would advise sparing those you can. They lack ability with a sword, but it was their family name that earned their position.”  


          Daenerys glanced at Grey Worm and nodded. “Spare who you can,” she ordered. “If they must be wounded then so be it.”  


          “As you will, My Queen.”  


          “Our greatest difficulty will be navigating the Red Keep and remaining undiscovered, at least until we have met our goals. At the hour of the owl, it will be mostly servants going about their duties and guards on patrol. The patrols vary in number with groups of two to four. They are arranged in a grid pattern, and each patrol covers a specific section of the keep.” Tyrion frowned at the map.  


          She followed his eyes. “Is there a problem?”  


          He looked up; apprehension clear in his eyes. “My brother heads the Queensguard, and for all his faults he’s no fool. He knows that we know information about the keep: it’s patrols and defenses. The first thing he would do once he learned of our arrival is change everything.”  


          “But he is unaware of our ability to enter and exit the keep at will,” Varys swept in. “Forgive me, but it is hard to anticipate something one does not know. Ser Jaime has likely changed patrol schedules for the ramparts and city defenses, but he has no reason to do so for the keep itself.”  


          Tyrion wasn’t convinced. “And the tunnels he used to get me out of the Black Cells?”  


          “The tunnel I directed Ser Jaime to belongs to a collection of access corridors, not part of Maegor’s system,” Varys rolled his shoulders. “Mostly used to move prisoners from the docks to the dungeons that the Crown would rather not be seen. I’m afraid I didn’t trust your brother with my secrets, my lord. Even if he had the exits to those tunnels bricked, it would be no hindrance to us.”  


          The look on Tyrion’s face was hard to decipher. Part amusement, part anger, part grudging respect. He would have to work through whatever he felt for his colleague later, now she needed him to focus. “My lords,” she pressed.  


          “Yes,” Tyrion visibly reigned himself in. “Patrols are split into three watches, each containing forty men, spread throughout the keep. The majority will hold their watch on the ramparts, with only a few walking the halls. The rest will be in the barracks near the Maiden Vault. As Qyburn doesn’t have any soldiers himself, any overflow will most likely be held in the barracks at the Tower of the Hand.” He pointed to a round building in the center of a courtyard.  


          “We will not be alone in our fight, Your Grace,” Varys said smoothly. “When I traveled to the mainland, I was keen to discover if there were any allies we could call on when it came time to take the city. The Crownlands have no love for Cersei Lannister or her rule, and I was quite successful.” Varys’s face brightened into something that might have been a smile if any of his features moved. “House Hayford is one of the richer houses of the Crownlands. It has ever and always been a friend to the crown, dating from the earliest days of Targaryen rule.”  


          “Correct me if I’m wrong, Varys,” Tyrion’s features were bunched in confusion. “But the current Lady Hayford is little more than a babe.”  


          Varys gave Tyrion an indulgent look. “A toddler, actually. A beautiful girl, with her mother’s eyes and her father’s smile.”  


          “And her husband?”  


          Daenerys started. “Husband?” she asked, looking between the two men. “You said Lady Hayford is a toddler.”  


          “She is,” Tyrion gave his queen a furtive glance. “It was one of my sister’s more dubious plans, to marry the babe to a cousin to gain control of the Hayford lands as lady Ermesande is the last of her line. Tyrek was poised to be Robert’s squire if Lancel ever managed to be knighted, a boy of four and ten. He disappeared during the Bread Riots.” The look he gave Varys left little doubt as to who he thought was responsible.  


          “As much as it pains me to admit it, I had nothing to do with young Tyrek Lannister’s disappearance.” The Master of Whispers folded his hands into the arms of his robes. “I set my little birds to find the boy, but even they discovered nothing.”  


          “And how does this toddler married to a missing Lannister youth help our cause?” Daenerys interrupted.  


          “Because Lord Daemon, the current castellan and regent of House Hayford until such time as Lady Hayford comes of age, loves his charge fiercely,” Varys explained. “She was born shortly after he lost his own wife and child to her birthing bed. In exchange for reassurances from Your Grace that lady Ermesande’s rights will be upheld against any claim from Tyrek Lannister’s family, he has declared for House Targaryen and called the majority of Hayford’s levies: 1,000 men. Men who are in King’s Landing as we speak, at least ten in the Red Keep itself as his household guard.”  


          Daenerys swallowed her irritation at Varys’s insistence on keeping such information from her. ‘In exchange of assurances,’ he said. Assurances she did not give but was now obliged to honor. “This is good news,” she said, though some tightness remained in her voice. “How closely are you able to communicate with this Lord Daemon?”  


          “I’ve had little birds living in the Hayford household for many years, Your Grace. Well placed and well protected. Darkwood will know what to do when the time comes.”  


          “And if your little bird is compromised?” Tyrion questioned.  


          “Then any information they are able to give will be nonsense. Lord Daemon is a clever man. He is especially fond of puzzles and ciphers. Children’s games, he calls them. He has created several for me over the years that have proven quite effective in keeping information safe from prying eyes.  


          “Most of his men are dispersed among the Gold Cloaks to support them in case of a siege. They serve as defenders of the city, allowing the City Watch to focus on quelling the growing unrest to Cersei’s rule. Once your men are in place, they will open the gates and allow the Unsullied inside.”  


          “And that will be their only duty,” Daenerys stressed. She remembered well what Jorah told her about Tywin’s sack of King’s Landing. She would not see her people slaughtered because a lord’s soldiers lacked discipline. “They are to man the walls and prevent the gates from being closed, nothing more.”  


          Varys nodded. “As you will, Your Grace. Lord Daemon and his household guard have plans to deal with the few Gold Cloaks in the Tower barracks.” Varys gestured to the large barracks near the Serpentine Stair. “Cersei has displaced most of them to the city barracks in her paranoia and filled the keep with Lannister men.”  


          Daenerys touched the map. “Can the doors be barricaded?”  


          “Not from the outside.”  


          It would mean a pitched battle between her Unsullied and the Lannister forces.  


          _Drogon._ She eyed the large courtyard. There was a wall that separated the barracks from the rest of the courtyard, a chokepoint, Jorah would have called it. The courtyard was large enough to land him there. The men would be suicidal to attempt to charge a dragon, no matter how many they were. She could hold them, force them to surrender while her Unsullied secured the rest of the castle.  


          _And be felled by an arrow in the back,_ a voice that sounded too much like Ser Barristan by half, whispered. “What are the chances the garrison is able to defeat our forces?”  


          “I won’t lie to you,” Tyrion gave her a solemn look. “The Lannister men know the lay of the keep. They will be rested, but the Unsullied will have the element of surprise and the fear of your dragons on their side. Cersei’s propaganda will work in our favor. Once they know your soldiers are in the keep, they’ll break their own necks looking to the skies waiting for you to rain fire on them. I’d venture half will surrender to keep from being burned alive. If all goes as we plan, the castle will fall before most of the inhabitants are aware of what’s happened.”  


          She prayed it would be so easy.

  

          The plan they revealed to their allies was vastly simplified from the one she, Tyrion, Varys, and Grey Worm spent most of the night working on. A force of 300 Unsullied guided by Varys would take the Red Keep while the bulk of her army was transported two miles north of the capital where they would join forces with men from the Crownland houses sworn to her, already moving under the pretense of marching in defense of King’s Landing. which would be opened by their allies within the city. They would overrun any defenders and claim her capital before the sun rose. Once King’s Landing was secure, she would ride through the Gate of the Gods with her commanders, the lords of the Crownlands, Lady Olenna, Lady Ellaria, and Lady Greyjoy at her side.  


          “I do not see your Dothraki in all of this,” Ellaria said, dark eyes piercing. “Why hold back the bulk of your forces?”  


          “I will not unleash the hoard on a city that will fall in less than an hour,” Daenerys said casually. “I doubt they would understand the concept of only killing those in armor.”  


          “So you don’t control them?” Ellaria pressed.  


          “I do,” Daenerys met the other woman’s gaze levelly. “The Dothraki have named me their Khaleesi, their leader. They have sworn to kill my enemies, and they tend to see any who aren’t Dothraki as enemies. They would put the city to the sword because they know no other way.”  


          Olenna turned to Grey Worm. “And the Unsullied?”  


          “We do as our queen commands,” her commander said without prompting. “Queen Daenerys wishes no man not in armor to be harmed. Wishes no buildings to burn. Wishes no women or children to be killed. We will make this so.”  


          Which was more than could be said for Westerosi soldiers.  


          “Do I have your support?” Daenerys asked, looking to her allies.  


          “You have mine,” Yara said immediately.  


          Ellaria looked from Tyrion to her, face impassive. After a charged moment she gave a small bow. “Dorne is with you, Your Grace.”  


          She turned to Lady Olenna, and relief washed through her when the older woman gave a nod.  


          “Thank you all,” she meant every word. “Lady Olenna, may I speak with you alone?”  


          Once the others filed out, she went to sit in front of the older woman. She hadn’t spent much time with Olenna Tyrell or Ellaria Sand as she would have liked. Both women were still something of a mystery to her, even after a month of living on the same island. Ellaria preferred her ship and her daughters to Dragonstone which according to Varys she found too dreary. Lady Tyrell spent most of her time in her rooms and requested not to be disturbed, a request easily granted. When she did catch sight of the Lady of Highgarden, she was a specter draped in black, the only thing heavier than her mourning the anger that seemed to follow her every step.  


          “I realize you’re here out of hatred for Cersei and not love for me, but I swear to you, she will pay for what she’s done,” Daenerys stated. “I will see justice done for your family.”  


          “Justice?” Olenna tilted her head. “A funny word, justice. Some would say I’ve already had justice served to me for my role in seeing Cersei on that throne. What I want now is vengeance. For my granddaughter, for my son and grandson.” Her eyes were hard, black chips, her jaw set.  


          The lady’s words gave Daenerys pause. Whatever demons plagued the Lady of Highgarden, they were not hers to help. “Then that is what you shall have,” she amended. “Cersei and her family have bled Westeros for years. Together, we will stop it.” When Olenna said nothing to that, she continued. “I pray you weren’t offended by our making plans without you, Lady Olenna. I know your people are suffering the most from whatever offensives Cersei has organized. Once King’s Landing is secured, I will send troops to relieve the Reach.”  


          Olenna Tyrell made a noise somewhere between a snort and a cough. “Only a fool would reveal how to break into their own castle to outsiders, allies or no. And if you were that much a fool I would be on the next ship to Highgarden, alliances be damned. Your rule wouldn’t last through the winter.”  


          Some of the trepidation eased from her stomach. She could take Westeros with her armies and dragons, but she didn’t wish to alienate her allies. Having Highgarden and the power of the Reach behind her would go far in convincing the rest of the Kingdoms to lay down arms. “I’m glad you agree.”  


          “And as for the Reach, I’m sure our armies can secure it well enough on their own, once this posturing is done.” She gave Daenerys a hard stare. “I’m surprised at you, girl. The Targaryen words are Fire and Blood. I thought you would be at the front of your army on dragon back when they took the capital.”  


          “We agreed that this hardly calls for such a display.”  


          “Of course it does!” Olenna looked at her like she was simple. “I followed what you did in Essos quite closely. A rare thing, for a woman to gain power through conquest the way you did…and with dragons!” She tapped her cane. “You are Visenya and Rhaenys Targaryen come again. It was only a shame you had the wrong parts, or I would have shipped Margaery to you without hesitation.”  


          She raised a silvery eyebrow. “And if I was as mad as my father?”  


          “Then I suspect my granddaughter would have had her work cut out for her. She was able to reign in Joffrey, at least for the short time she had him, and there were those who said he was Aerys come again.” Olenna fixed her with a cold stare. “Madness can oftentimes be harnessed, my dear. You just have to know how.”  


          Daenerys sat stone-like in her chair. She would not be cowed by this woman, no matter how her heart hammered at the thought of the darkness that plagued her family.  


          “In any event, it seems you’ve managed to escape that Targaryen affliction, not that it was ever as prevalent as everyone makes it out to be. All that talk of gods and coins…nonsense.” Olenna flicked her hand. “There were more sane Targaryens than insane ones, the histories will tell you that. Baelor heard voices, but he is beloved of the people to this day. Aerys…” she trailed off. “I’m sure you’ve heard more stories of what your father did than you care to remember. And the others? Maegor was a tyrant, but if we claim all tyrants are mad then half the rulers of the world have been mad. Aerion was monstrous from birth but never had a chance to sit the throne. Rhaegel’s worst crime was a dislike of clothes, as far as anyone can tell.”  


          _My brother._ The words sat like a stone in her stomach. Viserys had been kind, once, when they were still children. He protected her, he loved her, but as they grew that changed. Their lives hardened him, turned him into something twisted and cruel. The brother who told her stories of their home, such fantastic tales of castles with towers that touched the clouds and enough food to feed a hundred men disappeared piece by piece. He grew to delight in hurting her, in telling her more and more depraved tales of the things he would do to their enemies once he was king, the things he would do to her. She could still see the look on his face when he threatened to cut Rhaego from her. Drunk or no he meant every word.  


          “That leaves literally dozens of others with not a hint of madness to them,” Olenna continued. “Some were weak, some were strong, some weren’t worth mentioning more than their names, but that can be said for any family.”  


          “You’re perhaps the first person I’ve met who thinks so.” It was certainly refreshing, to hear she wasn’t destined to go mad.  


          Olenna curled her fingers around her wrist. “Take some advice from an old woman. Men underestimate us, I’m sure you know that. They think themselves smarter, better, because of what dangles between their legs. Nevermind it was a woman who carried them and labored to bring them into the world. The minute that crown is on your head twenty of them will be plotting ways to tear it off, if not more. They’ll use honeyed words or honeyed poison, but the result will be the same. The lords of Westeros are children, and like children, they won’t respect you unless they fear you. Your dragons will go a long way with that.”  


          “I disagree,” Daenerys said, one eyebrow raised. “You can rule through fear. I’ve seen it. The Good Masters in the slave cities ruled millions through fear. Fear of death, fear of pain, fear of tortures and torments, of being sold to ever crueler masters. Fear is how you make slaves, my Lady, and I have no intention of making slaves on these shores.”  


          There was a glint in Olenna’s eyes. “Then how do you propose to rule? By asking nicely?”  


          “By showing them there is a better way.” She leaned forward. “I will not be the specter of my father come again.”  


          The Lady of Highgarden shook her head, her expression clear. _You are a child,_ that look said. _You will learn._ “If you’re worried about what a bunch of spoiled men will say about you behind your back, don’t. It’s sheep who concern themselves with the opinions of others, dear girl, and are you a sheep?” Olenna gave her a knowing stare. “No, you are a dragon. _Be_ a dragon.” 

  

          Dragonstone was a cold, dreary place, Ellaria thought. A strange place, for Valyrians to settle. They were a southern race, from even further south and east than the Rhoynish, though no one would know it from their skin and hair, moon-pale as it was. The legends said it was a dream that led the Targaryens so far from home to this strange outpost, a dream that made them one of the few survivors of the Doom that destroyed their people. Three hundred years later, and a dream of restoring her family’s crown led another Targaryen back to Westeros.  


          _Soon, my love. Soon, our vengeance will be complete._ Cersei Lannister would be the last to feel their revenge. She would not kill the dwarf, however much it pained her. She owed him a life for ending Tywin, so she would let him keep his. It would cause too much trouble between Dorne and the Dragon Queen, and no matter how stealthy she was Ellaria was sure Daenerys would suspect her and her daughters if anything happened to her Hand. She doubted the brother would survive the attack on the Red Keep. If Daenerys’s soldiers were smart they would see the Kingslayer dead before the assault ended. In a few days’ time, the Lannister legacy would be ground to dust, and Oberyn’s dream would finally be realized. A dream twenty years in the making whispered about in the dead of night, half-plotted and abandoned time and again.  


          Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, sharp-clawed guilt threatening to choke her. _You should be here beside me._ How many times had they discussed finding Daenerys and Viserys, hiding them away from Robert Baratheon and helping them build an army to retake their throne? How many times had he approached Doran, only to be rebuffed? For years, Oberyn had struggled with the guilt of being unable to avenge Elia and her children as their murderers profited from their deaths and their kin through marriage were forced to wander Essos defenseless and alone. How he would laugh now, to see what happened to them. Tywin Lannister dead in a privy, a crossbow bolt in his bowels and a whore in his bed, the laughingstock of Westeros. Cersei and Jaime revealed to be the sibling fuckers it was always whispered, all of their children dead. Cersei herself a queen in name only, about to be torn away from a throne she was holding only by her fingertips.  


          “I don’t know if I should be pleased or concerned to see such a smile on your face, Lady Ellaria.”  


          The Lannister’s voice ripped her from her good mood. “You should be grateful our Queen has asked me to show you the respect you deserve as her Hand,” she held none of the venom back from her voice.  


          He gave her a mockings smile. “Surprisingly enough, she asked that I show you the same. As ruling Lady of Dorne, of course.”  


          “Of course.” She turned.  


          “Speaking of,” he continued, forcing her to face him again. “We’ve yet to receive a raven from the Water Gardens or Sunspear. Or heard anything from Dorne, really. I’m beginning to grow concerned.”  


          “The Dornish are loyal, Lannister,” she all but hissed. “They were told where they were needed, and that is where they are. We do not need our lords and ladies to wipe our asses south of the Marches the way your people seem to. Travel through the desert is harsh, the mountain passes treacherous during the rainy season. They will be in the Reach soon enough.” It would have been better for them to be transported by ship, but with Euron waiting on the seas, overland was the best choice.  


          “As you say, my Lady.” He watched her; blue eyes unsure.  


          “What?”  


          The dwarf huffed out a breath. “I know it means nothing to you, but I am sorry Oberyn died. I was prepared to have the shortest trial by combat in history before he agreed to stand for me.” He looked down. “He deserved his revenge.” Before she could say anything, he turned and hurried away.  


          _I am not sorry for Myrcella,_ she wanted to throw the words after him, wanted to watch his shoulders stiffen, but she did not. He was the one who sent the girl to Dorne. A promise if not of ended hostilities, then at least of a détente, and it was her lover who paid the price.  


          Ellaria decided she would not linger on Dragonstone. She would join her daughters on their ship tonight and sail with them for King’s Landing. In four days, she would stand before Cersei Lannister with a smile, her children at her back while the lions were all cold in the ground. _Lions are proud, roaring their might to their enemies,_ she thought as she stalked through the castle. _But a single bite from a viper can kill even the greatest of them without ever being seen._

* * *

          Sansa ignored the ping of nerves that danced in her stomach as Jon took the bundle of folded clothes from her. It was the result of over two weeks of work: four shirts, two dyed deep black, two the grey of their sigil, two pairs of dark brown trousers, and a leather vest with silver buttons that were in a chest the servants found deep in the cellars. The embossed direwolves were so old they were worn near smooth, but she handed them over to Garen, a Wintertown smith, and he reworked the metal until they were like new. She would have preferred Jon in velvet and silks; something to set him apart from the other lords that remained in Winterfell, but she would work with what she had. She doubted he would wear a velvet doublet, even if she sewed it for him, no matter how plain. Not yet, at least. Still, this small collection of garments was a start. If it was the last thing Sansa did, she would see him out of the brigandine that seemed to be a part of him since they retook Winterfell. 

          Jon fingered the direwolves stitched along the collar of a dark grey shirt, the color so close to that of the material they were all but lost until the silk thread shone. “It’s all…very nice, Sansa.” In anyone else, she would doubt his meaning at the hesitation, but she knew it was because he was unused to receiving gifts, even practical ones. 

          “You’re a king, Jon. It’s time you started dressing like one.” Even if it was nothing but good wool, leather, and linens. He couldn’t continue to walk around dressed like a common soldier. “Part of earning respect is looking like you deserve it. That means wearing something other than your armor.” 

          His expression flattened and some light left his eyes at her words. She’d managed to insult him or touch on a subject he didn’t want to talk about. She relented. “I’ll have another vest ready in the next few days. I would like to see you wearing them during the day.” 

          “As you command, my lady.” His lips twitched. 

          Sansa sniffed. “Good. As Lady of Wintefell, it is my duty to see my king dressed according to his station.” 

          “Lady Catelyn would be proud.” 

          Once, those words might have been said with a hint of bitterness, but not now. “And Father would be proud of you.” 

          Her brother gave a short nod before placing the stack on his desk with a careful hand that spoke of how precious he thought the gift, even if he never said it. “How are the Vale lords?” 

          “Cold,” she said simply. “I believe they are finally learning why our words have endured for 8000 years.” Many of the lesser lords were finding it difficult to deal with the dropping temperatures. She saw one bundled to the point he looked less like a lord than a pile of batted wool that learned how to walk. 

          Jon frowned. “But not cold enough for Baelish to return south.” 

          “He won’t. Not so long as he thinks there is something to gain.” 

          His expression turned mulish. “What does he think he can gain from the North? We’ve already denied his attempts to gain more influence. The Northern lords don’t trust his slick words.” Petyr Baelish was a powerful man in the south, but in a kingdom where most of the lords wanted nothing to do with him or his like, that power was curtailed. 

          “If there’s a grain of influence or power to be found, Littlefinger will find it,” Davos grumbled from his place by a window. “Stannis tried to get Robert to dismiss him from the Small Council for years, but so long as he kept coin flowing for his tourneys and…” he glanced at Sansa, “ladies of the evening, he remained in favor.” 

          Sansa remained still as Davos spoke, oil-slicked dread pooling in her stomach. She could tell them of Petyr’s plans. How he never stopped wanting the Iron Throne, and how he wanted her there beside him. How he would do anything in his power to see that happen. She knew Jon had an inkling of what the man would do, but he didn’t know the lengths Baelish went to. Instead, she held her peace. Jon would execute Littlefinger if she did, and the lords of the Vale would be split in their allegiance. 

          She’d learned from Lord Royce that Petyr had Robyn under his thumb, so enamored with his gifts and promises that he would throw anyone who disagreed with the man through the moon door with no hesitation. Losing Littlefinger would mean losing their one ally. The knights of the Vale came North at his bidding, and without it would most likely return home to wait out the winter. As much as she wished the lords would welcome his death, she knew there were others that would hate them for it. They could not afford a civil war in Winterfell, not when their own forces were so thin. “Littlefinger wants what Littlefinger wants. No one knows exactly what he has planned.” 

          “Then he’s said nothing to you?” Jon sounded disappointed. 

          Sansa sighed. “Nothing but his usual desire to see the North secured in the Stark name,” she made it sound flippant, and hoped Jon wouldn’t look too carefully that it wasn’t ‘secured in _your_ name’. “If he’s plotting against us, he’s been subtle about it.” She didn’t know if Jon knew she had the servants taste every dish once it was plated, and again before it was set in front of him. She once made a point of sending a serving tray directly from Jon to Petyr, a high honor for the man whose knights saved Winterfell. He cocked an eyebrow before deliberately taking a large helping of the spiced venison and eating every bite. 

          “And if something happens to Littlefinger, the knights of the Vale run back to the Vale unless ordered by their liege.” His eyes turned sharp. “You said Baelish threw your aunt through the moon door. Do you think we could use that? Cause a rift between him and your cousin?” 

          “I testified before the Lords Declarant that it was an accident.” To this day she regretted it. Lord Royce and Lady Waynwood would have seen her safe, she knew that now, and Petyr would be dead, unable to continue with his schemes. _Or to help you reclaim your home._ “At best, they will not take the charge seriously.” 

          “And at worst they will use it against you.” 

          “Surely the lords would understand you were under duress, my lady,” Davos massaged his fingerless hand. He told her once that, even after being gone for so many years, there were times they ached. 

          “It would be a risk.” 

          “One we can ill afford to take.” Jon rubbed at his jaw. “Lord Manderly has expressed his wish to remain in Winterfell for the time being.” 

          The abrupt change of subject did not faze her. Jon often did it when he felt a subject was no longer worth fixating on. “Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse? We’ll starve before the Others ever get beyond the Wall.” 

          In truth, Lord Manderly was no longer quite so fat. It seemed war and winter had carved away some of his bulk. He might be able to mount a horse now. A sturdy one. 

          “He feels the distance between White Harbor and Winterfell too long for him to travel as he would need with the coming snows,” Jon continued. “He plans to leave his seat to Wyllis and has called for his granddaughters to join him here.” 

          It was Davos who chuckled first, and Jon gave the older man a quizzical stare. 

          Sansa tried to be more politic. “I’ve heard Lord Manderly’s granddaughters are quite pretty.” 

          Jon turned the same look on her, as if she’d sprouted another head, or perhaps horns, and he was trying to reconcile the two images. 

          “What?” She leaned forward. “You’re King in the North, Jon. I’m surprised more lords haven’t begun parading their daughters in front of you.” She could see it, lords bringing their daughters to Winterfell, knowing the snows would mean having to stay for extended periods. Months, even years, if the weather was bad enough. Enough time to seduce a king. 

          “I don’t suppose a proclamation to put off marrying until spring will keep them at bay?” 

          Davos scoffed. “You do that they’ll start launching the girls over the walls by catapult.” 

          “Manderly is the first, but he won’t be the last,” Sansa added. “Every Northern house that has a daughter of marriageable age wants to make her the Queen in the North.” She watched as her bother seemed to sink in on himself. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Is there a reason you don’t want to marry?” Perhaps he was like Renly and Loras and preferred the company of men. It would be a difficulty, but not insurmountable. She’d seen no sign of it, and the only person Jon spent any amount of time with besides herself was Ser Davos. 

          Jon scowled. “I just never really thought about it, is all.” 

          Sansa sighed. Of course, he hadn’t. Her brother always proclaimed he would join the Night’s Watch as soon as their father gave him leave. “That was when you were going to the Wall. You’re king. You have to think about heirs.” 

          If anything, the tightness around his eyes and mouth deepened. “I’ve been king less than three months.” 

          “Joffrey would have married me as soon as he was crowned if I’d flowered earlier.” Sansa managed to say the words without shuddering. She would always be grateful that war and politics prevented it. “Once the Tyrells were on his side, they had me in the Sept of Baelor and all but threw me into Tyrion’s bed.” 

          Her brother’s face smoothed in a way that shouted her name louder than his voice ever could, and she relented. She was a woman wedded twice; did he think she would approach such things like a blushing maid? 

          “If we survive the winter and the Night King, I’ll have years yet to think about marriage,” he said the words with determination. There would be no changing his mind, not now. 

          Fine. “All right then. There is the matter of forming a Small Council.” 

          “A Small Council,” he repeated voice flat. She could see him digging in his heels in the way his shoulders stiffened. It reminded her too much of Ghost by half. 

          “Yes.” Petyr was right, loathe as she was to admit it; Jon couldn’t keep up with everything alone. There were too many concerns that needed seeing to, and he was only one man. She helped where she could, but it took more than two people, three if she counted Davos, to keep a kingdom running. “You can’t be everywhere at once or do everything yourself. It’s the best way to delegate responsibilities.” 

          “The Kings of Winter ruled the North for 8,000 years without Small Councils,” he argued. 

          “But they did have advisors,” she countered. “They may not have called them Master of Laws or Master of Coin, but the duties were much the same.” 

          “And which lords will sit on the Council?” Jon shook his head. “We’ve already put Baelish off lands until the thaw. He won’t stand the insult of being excluded from a council like this, and the Northern lords will raise seven hells if a southerner sits beside them, even one from the Vale.” 

          “Offer it to Lord Royce.” 

          They both turned to Davos. 

          “Littlefinger is regent of the Vale until Robyn Arryn comes of age, so asking him to sit on a Small Council would take him too much away from his obligations down south. He can’t protest being allowed to fulfill his duty to his ward and future lord.” 

          Jon’s shoulders sank. She knew how he felt about the Vale lords, and for all their politeness to the King in the North, there was an undercurrent there as well. He was right; they still saw him as a bastard, no matter how elevated. Finally, he nodded. “Better Royce than Baelish.” 

          “Better a bloodsnake than Baelish,” Davos muttered. 

          It was a good compromise. The northern lords could at least stomach Royce, a warrior with battles behind him. “What position should we offer Lord Royce, then?” 

          Jon cut his eyes to the Onion Knight. “You’re my Hand.” 

          “Jon-” 

          “No,” he cut her off sharply, then apologized with his eyes. “Davos has been with me since Castle Black. He’s the reason I’m standing here and not ashes scattered to the winds. If I must have a Hand, it’s him.” He turned to Davos. “You were Hand to Stannis, and you did well enough.” 

          Sansa heaved a breath. It would be better for a northerner to hold the position, but she could see Jon’s point. “Do you have anyone else in mind?” 

          “I want you to be my Master of Coin.” 

          Her eyes widened despite herself. No woman had ever sat on a Small Council. Even Cersei’s presence on Joffrey’s was unofficial. 

          “You’re already taking care of Winterfell,” Jon reached out and Ghost padded over to him, sliding under his hand until Jon’s palm rested in the center of his back. “You’ve handled most of the household appointments, and don’t think I don’t know you doublecheck my math on our accounts when you’re in here.” He gave her a fond smile. “You were always better at your sums than me, anyway. Better at it than Robb. I trust you to look after the North and her affairs, Sansa.” 

          “There is the small problem of your appointing your sister,” Davos said carefully. “The other lords might take umbrage to a woman sitting on the council.” 

          “Then they’re welcome to take up their concerns about a woman’s judgment with Lady Mormont. Or Lady Dustin, if they’d like a greater challenge.” Jon looked like simply saying the name caused him pain. Lady Barbrey Dustin was difficult to work with on the best of days. She harbored a singular dislike of House Stark, but Sansa was unable to discover why. Sansa remembered her mother once commenting the woman should help maintain the Wall, what with how cold her demeanor was. Lady Barbrey managed to hold her house and lands against both Ramsay and his father when many of the other houses of the North were forced to submit. For all her difficulty she often wore a pleased expression when she saw Jon as if an event turned out better than she could have hoped. 

          “Manderly as Master of Ships makes sense,” Sansa took up a sheet of parchment and began writing the names and positions. “White Harbor is the only true port in the North.” 

          “Which we should work on,” said Davos. “You may never have an easy relationship with the Westerlands, but the Reach has good trade, and shipping grain up during the winter will be necessary, provided the dead don’t come down on us.” 

          They spent the rest of the afternoon discussing what positions they would create and who would fill them. Royce was given the title of Advisor, and they hoped such a vague position would be enough. Jon mused on putting the North to a vote as the Watch did before letting out a genuine laugh at the look on her face. Even when he narrowed it to only the lords, the idea was ludicrous. A vote would lead to infighting and pandering, and while men of the Night’s Watch were restricted in the ways they could sway a vote, the lords had no such limits. 

          The sun was set by the time they decided to stop for the day. 

          Jon waved off eating in the Great Hall, stating he would find something for himself in the kitchens later, and Sansa joined Ser Davos as he did his normal evening circuit around the inner wall of Winterfell. The battlements were swept free of snow and scaled of ice, so it was stable enough to be enjoyable instead of treacherous. Even though the temperature dropped rapidly after dark, neither hurried through their circuit. They walked in companionable silence until she spoke. “You’ve known Jon since the Night’s Watch, Ser Davos.” 

          “Aye.” His eyes were fond as he sidestepped a guard. “Met him after Stannis tore through Mance Rayder’s men. Neither of us was sure what a Black Brother was doing in the middle of a wildling camp, especially when it was clear they’d been fighting a battle not half a day before.” 

          “How did he get along with Stannis?” 

          Davos stopped. They were on the covered walkway overlooking the first bailey, the lanterns already lit against the coming night. “Stannis didn’t like very many.” He worked his shoulders as if shrugging off something unpleasant. “Wasn’t liked by very many, either. He wasn’t a friendly man, King Stannis. Neither was Jon. He took his duty to the Watch seriously. Never shied from what needed doing. That spoke more to the man he is than any words he could have said. Stannis saw that and respected it.” Amusement crinkled the skin around his eyes. “I think they were more alike than either was willing to admit.” 

          Sansa thought on that. She never saw Stannis in King’s Landing, but stories of his frozen face and forbidding nature were rampant among the ladies at court. 

          “He offered to legitimize him, you know,” he bobbed slightly. “Your brother. Name him Jon Stark and award him Winterfell and the title of Warden if he would help Stannis win the war against Ramsay. Jon turned it down. Said he was a Snow, not a Stark, and that his loyalty was to the Night’s Watch.” 

          That certainly sounded like Jon. “The Watch takes no sides.” A small part of her resented Jon for that. They never spoke on if he knew Sansa was being held in Winterfell. Never talked of how she’d stare to the North, hoping, praying to gods she’d long thought dead that her half-brother would come and save her where everyone else failed. It was foolish, she knew. Even if Jon tried, he would most likely have died in the attempt, or worse, been captured alive. 

          “And he meant to keep to that. Did keep to that, until Thorne and his men…” Davos trailed off with a shake of his head. 

          Sansa swallowed. “At Castle Black, I heard there was a mutiny of some sort,” she said, a question in her voice. 

          The man’s eyes went hard. “Aye. Men discontent with your brother’s decision to let the Wildlings through the Wall. Jon executed the traitors, then turned the Watch over to a Brother named Edd.” He cocked his head. “If you don’t mind my asking, my Lady, why do you care what Stannis thought of Jon?” 

          “Stannis was from the Stormlands,” she explained as she started walking. “What little I know of them is what I’ve seen of Brienne, Ser Barristan, Robert, and Renly.” Once Joffrey ‘won’ his war she was more isolated than ever. The few Stormlords who came to the Red Keep to swear fealty to her former betrothed cared nothing for Ned Stark’s disgraced daughter. Davos gave a low chuckle. “Three men who couldn’t be further apart, if you ask me, and a lady of unparalleled honor.” 

          “It makes judging the temperament of the people of the Stormlands difficult. The North needs allies if we are to survive the winter, Ser Davos.” She fought not to fidget. To maintain her cold exterior even as her insides roiled. “Winterfell cannot feed the whole North, not even with the glass gardens working at full capacity.” She’d run through the numbers several times since the glass arrived, compared it to previous winter harvests. They were woefully behind for so early in the season. “Eventually, our food will run out. We need to make alliances with southron houses before that happens and we are left starving. Preferably with those that won’t poison us at Cersei’s command.” 

          “You’ll pardon my asking, Lady Sansa, but I thought the Vale would be more than happy to supply Winterfell with whatever food it needs?” 

          “For a price.” One neither she nor Jon was willing to pay. Just the thought of Petyr’s hands on her made her blood run cold before it set it to boiling. He hadn’t asked, not in so many words, but she could feel the coldness of it poised like a knife to her heart. “My father’s name still carries weight in the Vale. I hoped it would do the same in the Stormlands. Knowing how Stannis reacted to Jon will give me some idea how other lords might respond to a letter from Ned Stark’s daughter and son.” 

          Davos thought for a moment. “Before we sailed north, Stannis left Storm’s End in the hands of Greyson Thayne. Thayne’s a man who takes his duty seriously. If he still holds Storm’s End, it means he’s still loyal to House Baratheon. He would have control of the stores of the castle. Your father lost his head because he supported Stannis’s claim to the throne. I can’t imagine him dismissing either you or your brother considering your sacrifice, and he’s not like to have bowed to Cersei.” 

          Sansa nodded. Greyson Thayne was a name unknown to her. She wondered what his price would be. 

          “If it’ll make things easier, I can write to Storm’s End and make your introductions, explain the situation.” He shrugged. “Some news from the South wouldn’t be amiss, either.” 

          Something churned in her stomach. Cersei and Daenerys Targaryen were both in the South, and whichever queen won their war for the Iron Throne they were sure to set their sights on the North. “Thank you, Ser Davos.” 

          He gave a short bow. “My lady.” 

* * *

          Daenerys pressed her hands to her stomach as sunlight spread across Blackwater Bay. Eleven ships set sail from Dragonstone at dawn, each loaded with Unsullied and Dothraki. Aurane Waters was good to his word, pulling to Dragonstone just before dawn with three fully manned cogs and two dromonds carrying 50 soldiers each and word the Bar Eammon forces would join them at Driftmark before they made their way to King’s Landing.  


          Next to her, Missandei stood still as stone, watching the ship that carried Grey Worm as it disappeared. Her heart went out to her friends. For most of their lives, they were forbidden from desiring anything for themselves. For so long they danced around their feelings, afraid of what the future would hold. Daenerys set her hand on Missandei’s shoulder. “He will come back to you.”  


          Her friend filled her lungs until her slight shoulders lifted. “Valar Morghoulis.” It was little more than a whisper.  


          _The Unsullied are not men, Khaleesi,_ her Bear told her in Astapor, and yet so many had died for her already. Daenerys shifted her hand until it was gripping Missandei’s arm, bringing the other woman into a hug. “Valar Dohaeris.”  


          They stood that way for long moments until she felt some of the tension drain from her friend, the sharp column of her spine giving just a little. With another long breath, she dipped her chin and turned to her. “Forgive me, Your Grace.”  


          “There is nothing to forgive.” She kept her eyes on the bay, admiring the way the sunlight turned the grey waters gold. “When Drogo rode to battle, I would wait as close as I could, hoping to catch even a glimpse of him, praying that he was still alive.” She remembered her elation when she was allowed to ride through the carnage and see her Sun and Stars still tall and proud, arakh covered in the blood of his enemies.  


          _In the blood of innocents. Of those unable to defend themselves._ Daenerys pushed the thoughts aside. The Dothraki of her husband were as they were, their customs not hers to change. She would not allow such things in her khalasar. “Grey Worm is strong,” she said with conviction. “Astapor did not kill him, nor Meereen. He would kill Death itself to come back to you, Missandei. Of that, I’ve no doubt.”  


          Her eyes drifted to the beach, were a few Dothraki gathered to see their leaders off, and she sighed. They were less than pleased with being kept from the assault.  


          _“You would let them take the Stone City and leave your people behind like cowards?”  
_

_Daenerys looked over the men who spoke for her khalasar. None of them were happy when she revealed how she planned to take the capital. When she claimed them as her bloodriders she did so with promises of tearing down the stone houses of those across the poison water, and now, when she planned to attack the greatest of them all, the Dothraki would not be there. “The Stone City will fall in the time it takes a mare to foal, if not less. They have no army of their own, no one to stand and fight for them. The Unsullied plan to steal into the Great Keep in the middle of the night and take the false queen. I did not think this a task for my people.”  
_

_A murmur of assent went up among them. Dothraki did not use subterfuge or stealth when it came to war. They fought their enemies on the field and stormed cities with the entirety of their strength. In their eyes, only a coward would use such tactics. The Dothraki word for ‘sneak’ also translated to ‘horse thief’ depending on the intonation used, the gravest of insults. Blood feuds were started over less.  
_

_“There will be other battles.” She gave them each a hard stare. “As much as I wish all the Westerosi to welcome me, many will not. When the time comes, I will show those who defy me the strength of my people. They will feel your arakhs and learn to fear the sound of your hoofbeats.”  
_

_The whoop that went up at her words was a relief. “Though you will not fight, when I enter the Stone City I would have you at my side.”  
_

          Dornish, Reachmen, Unsullied, Crownlanders, Dothraki… there was still someone missing. “Will you ride with me to King’s Landing?” The question fell from her lips before she could pull it back.  


          Missandei’s eyes widened. “Your Grace?”  


          Their original plan was for Missandei to sail to the capital after it was secured, but that felt wrong now. “You have been with me for nearly every step of this journey. When I enter King’s Landing, I would like for you to be at my side.”  


          The other woman opened her mouth and closed it again before speaking. “Will Drogon allow me to ride him, Your Grace?”  


          Daenerys looked up. Her children were circling the island as they had been since the men began loading the ships before dawn. Dorgon soared high above, but Viserion and Rhaegal glided low, wings almost brushing the water at times before sweeping back into the sky. She could feel their curiosity and excitement. “He likes you.”  


          “And I like him,” Missandei said quickly.  


          She smiled. She could remember when her children were small enough to fit in her lap. Drogon was always with wildest of them, the most independent, but he had a soft spot for Missandei. He would often watch her, head tilted. More than once he stretched out to her to be petted, allowing it for a few seconds before flying away. Though years had passed since he permitted her such liberties it was more than he’d ever shown another human.  


          Above, Drogon let out a roar that was echoed by his brothers.  


          Missandei raised her head and stared after her child for a moment before turning determined eyes to her. “If Drogon does not object I would be honored, Your Grace.”

* * *

          There was something about sailing during moon dark that always made Yara want to fuck.  


          Maybe it was the way the night seemed to swallow everything or the way every wave that lapped at her ship could be the last. There were times when the sea was calm and everything was still, that it looked she was sailing on the stars themselves, the prow of her longship parting the skies like that of a goddess of old.  


          “Not long now,” Yara said quietly. They were closing in on the Red Keep. The battlements were lit, which worked in their favor. It gave them light to see the castle and walls but ruined the vision of those standing watch. They were still a good distance out. If anyone saw them, they looked like dark blobs on the water, maybe a whale that wandered into the bay or a bit of flotsam, nothing more.  


          “Think this’ll work?” Theon asked at her side.  


          Yara plastered a smile on her face. “’Course it will. I’ve snuck into worse places than this. If I can sail past the Titan without those Braavosi bastards knowing, I can sail here.”  


          The smile he gave her was sickly, but the end of it was tinged with something like belief.  


          There were eleven ships in their little armada now, all told. The other seven separated hours ago to drop their soldiers up the coast to begin their march to the capital. She could just make out the shape of them around her, gliding through the Blackwater. In the distance, she could make out the towers of the Red Keep, the ones the Spider said to keep in her sights, so they’d know where to set anchor for those going in.  


          _Would have been nice, knowing how to get in there,_ she thought. When Tyrion let slip that there was a way into the Red Keep, unknown and unguarded, she almost smiled. Not that she had planned on killing a queen herself, but you never knew when such information came in handy. That’s all he let slip, though, so she’d have to discover it for herself some other way. There would be no Ironmen on the boats leading to the crags, only Unsullied.  


          “We’ll be all right, so long as that long-haired fucker don’t ram us,” Bar whispered.  


          “He’s no mainlander,” she muttered back. She didn’t know much about the people of Driftmark, but they were islanders of a sort. The man she tasked with following him through the storm said he was a steady hand through the waves, and she trusted Janus to know what was what. “He hasn’t hit one of us yet.”  


          Yara peered into the darkness where she knew Waters’ ship should be. When they first set sail, she asked if he planned on blowing a horn, what with his pretty white sails. The man only smiled at her and told her not to worry about him or his ships. Those white sails did nothing but make her itch for three days until close to sundown, when he had their rigging stripped and replaced with sails of deep blue. When he caught her eye he swept that ridiculous hat off his head and bowed, the long length of his hair near brushing the deck of his ship.  


          For a moment she wondered what all that hair would feel like between her thighs, then shook the thought away. Aurane Waters was too pretty by half, and pretty men were more trouble than they were worth.  


          After another hour she gestured for her men to heave-to. They were nearing a mile offshore now, her prow centered between the two towers Varys spoke of.  


          The Spider was at her elbow as if her thoughts summoned him. “Your men know their craft,” his soft voice was almost lost in the cold air.  


          “Let’s pray you know yours.” Her hand tightened on her ax as the first boats launched. 

  

          Tyrion surveyed their forces as they made their way down the Eastern Road to the Dragon Gate, though he knew there was no need for it. The Unsullied were the most disciplined army he’d ever seen. Every man among them knew his place and where to go. Their landing two miles up the coast was as smooth as it was at Dragonstone, easier even. Most of their ships were those favored by the Ironborn and could run up on the beach itself, allowing over a hundred men to disembark at once.  


          “Everyone thought you were dead.”  


          “That seems to be quite common for me.” Tyrion fought the urge to kick his horse into a trot. He wouldn’t give Ardrian Celtigar the satisfaction of seeing him run. “I’m happy to continue to disappoint.”  


          “Cersei almost tore the Red Keep down trying to find how you escaped from the Black Cells.” He gave a death’s head smile. “She tried to hide it, for a time, but she had to admit she lost the man who killed her son. And her father, from what the rumors say.”  


          The Crownland countryside was much different from the green rush of summer or the fading olive tones of early fall. The trees were bare, the fields plowed and fallow, no doubt in the hope the first spirit summer will last long enough for at least a crop of barley to be planted and harvested.  


          So far, they managed to remain unseen as the countryside was largely abandoned. The small farms and homesteads were dark, the livestock missing or left wandering in the pastures. Whether from the wars before or because the people fled fearing what was to come was anyone’s guess. He supposed it was only natural for Lord Ardrian to attempt conversation in such bleak circumstances.  


          Still, the man didn’t have to be a cunt about it.  


          “Imagine our surprise when you reappeared at the side of the Dragon Queen, as her Hand, no less.”  


          Lord Ardrian Celtigar was the image of a man who’d lived too long but refused to acknowledge that fact. Tyrion was sure that once the man was handsome; his jaw was still square, his nose, if not for the poorly set break at its bridge would have been well-shaped, and his eyes were a piercing pale blue. Any other man his age would have the decency for his hair to at least be thin if not missing entirely, but Celtigar’s was still thick and curling at his nape if shock white. He rode well in his armor, the red crab of his house enameled on his gorget. Still, to say he was anything other than a sour old man would be a lie terrible enough to land a person in one of the Seven Hells.  


          _Careful, Celtigar,_ Tyrion thought. _Blood wasn’t enough to save my father. Age certainly won’t save you if I find a crossbow._ “Our queen does have an eye for talent.”  


          “I’m sure Lord Tyrion has proven himself indispensable to Queen Daenerys,” Terrance Celtigar, Ardrian’s grandson, said diplomatically.  
Ardrian glared at the boy. “I’m sure he wants everyone to believe that.”  


          “Tell me, my lord, is there a reason for this display?” He fixed his features into one of false concern. “You aren’t still upset about Blackwater Bay, are you? After all, what is a little wildfire between allies?”  


          Ardrian gave him a look that would have melted steel and spurred his horse forward.  


          “Is he always so cheerful?” Tyrion asked, staring after the man.  


          Terrance shook his head. “Oh no, my Lord Hand. At times he’s downright jaunty. Spring in his step, even.”  


          Terrance Celtigar couldn’t have been a day over fifteen, heir apparent to Claw Isle, if his grandfather ever decided to let the Stranger take him. He looked surprisingly relaxed for someone marching to battle, even if it was a battle he wouldn’t be fighting in. So far as he knew. Battle plans had a tendency to go to shit once the first man was gutted. “Are you sure your grandfather would want you to reveal that information?”  


          The boy shrugged. “I’ll deal with it in the morning.”

  

          Qyburn found he rather liked the undercrofts of the Red Keep.  


          Unlike the Black Cells, they were clean, once one took a broom to the layers of dust and dirt. There was no lingering smell of urine or feces to distract him from his work. Not that it was much of a distraction. Both could be extremely informative, depending on what one of researching, but that didn’t mean he wanted to smell them when he didn’t need to. Most importantly, it was quiet. The jailers in the dungeons were either too helpful or not helpful enough, depending on how they felt about his experiments, and the screams, though unavoidable, tended to give him a headache.  


          No, the undercrofts were much better when it came to the quieter aspects of his studies.  


          Once, the Tower of the Hand sufficed, but that was before Cersei began displacing the City Watch into the barracks below. The soldiers weren’t a bad lot, they were simply loud, as such men were. He knew the stress of their duties, especially with war looming, made men behave in certain ways. He was happy to leave them to their revelries until the hour of the bat while he worked on his latest conundrum.  


          Near a month ago one of his children came to him with a peculiar story: a man who resembled Varys, walking the streets of King’s Landing. It wasn’t unusual. Every few weeks since the former Master of Whispers vanished to the other side of the world one of the children swore they saw him leaving some tavern or sweeping into the manse of a trader. It was to be expected when you dealt with children, but Stephas wasn’t one to make up stories for an extra sweet.  


          The child said the Spider disappeared into the crowds at the docks, but he had followed him from the Street of Sisters. There was nothing there but boarding houses, nothing to distinguish one from another. The only peculiarity was a house that shut its doors the day after the supposed Varys was seen, its owner vanished. Not very unusual, when he questioned her neighbors. Business was poor, and more of the small establishments were forced to close their doors every day. What was unusual was his inability to track the woman down. She’d simply disappeared, leaving a few possessions behind. When questioned the boy who occasionally saw to the small stable at the back said she’d planned on leaving King’s Landing for some time, a sick sister or cousin or some such, and lack of business finally drove her to her kin. Further questioning revealed nothing else of import, other than the boy often used the stable loft to hide small trinkets stolen from the market.  


          Though he knew Cersei was desperate to get her hands on the former spymaster, it wasn’t enough information to go on. A man who may or may not have been Varys may have stayed at a boarding house that closed soon after. The most interesting thing was within days they had news of Daenerys landing at Dragonstone, lending some credence to the boy’s claim. Still, it was flimsy at best, so he focused on his other task.  


          Qyburn rose from his table and walked to the skull of Balerion the Dread. The bolt was still lodged in its skull, testament to the strength of the weapon he’d designed, though he doubted the same result on a living subject. Balerion’s bones were brittle compared to those of a still-living dragon. At best there would be some penetration, but he could not determine if it would be deep enough to cause lasting damage. Pain, certainly, but enough to incapacitate the creature? Without a test subject, he could only speculate. Dragons were believed to be extraordinarily intelligent, some argued on par with or greater than man. Such a creature would be able to fight through the pain if it felt the goal was worth it.  


          The former maester circled the skull again. It was a shame that no maester was ever allowed to dissect a dragon. When their dragons died the Targaryens had them burned in the fashion of Old Valyria, their bones gathered and buried or else brought to the Red Keep or Dragonstone. Even those felled during the Dance were later collected with speed and whisked away before any formal study could be done. He’d always been terribly fascinated with them, especially the mechanism by which they breathed fire. When he was still earning his chain he hypothesized that it must be a mixture of some sort that ignited once introduced to the air.  


          Before bringing Cersei down to test his creation he’d taken an in-depth survey of the skulls, comparing size and morphology, attempting to classify which dragon they once belonged to. The Black Dread was the easiest to recognize, as he was by far the largest, but no effort was ever made to maintain the identity of the others once they were removed from the throne room. In his examination he found there were two nodules at the hinge of the jaw in all of them, tiny things, really. Hollow, but so thin he could just finger a finger into them on Balerion. Remnants of teeth, or proof of his theory he could not say.  


          Perhaps, if his scorpion felled one of Daenerys’s dragons, he could further his studies.  


          He turned his thought from the potential knowledge waiting to be discovered in the remains of the great beasts and back to how best to bring them down. The invincibility of fully matured dragons was well known. The Dornish were able to bring down Meraxes with a shot to the eye, all but a miracle. Daenerys’s dragons were less than a decade old, and though there was no official literature on the lifespan of dragons, the Black Dread lived to at least three hundred years, making the possibility of these dragons having reached their maturity unlikely. That, coupled with the improvements he made to the original scorpion design, might prove quite effective.  


          Qyburn was so lost in his contemplation of where he would perform the dissection of the dragon (transporting such a large subject would be unwieldy but leaving it in the field to be food for crows and other scavengers was untenable. Perhaps he could persuade the queen to give him leave to set up a tent large enough to cover the creature and provide ample research space) that he did not hear the slight click that preceded a wall opening in the back of the cellar, nor the quiet feet that exited carefully at the presence of candlelight. 

  

          Nolth Rivers liked the Hayford men.  


          The Lannisters who made up the bulk of the Keep’s garrison these days were a bunch of cunts, by and large. Too proud, too self-important. Even the bastards like him sprinkled about were as bad as the rest of them, as if being a Hill instead of a Rivers or a Waters made you better than anyone else. His father may have been a minor lord with little but the land beneath his heels, but he saw to it he knew his sums and letters and that he’d made his way to King’s Landing instead of the Wall. There were two places bastards could go far in the Seven Kingdoms, and he had no intention of freezing his balls off at the end of the world.  


          The Baratheons, at least, those from Storm’s End, had been all right. Knew when to loosen their belts and when to draw steel well enough. Those from Dragonstone were too like their lord – stiff-backed cunts, the lot of them. Too afraid to so much as laugh, as if Stannis would appear and send them back to that dreary rock out in the bay. It’d been a real shame, having to kill the lot of them that refused to go with Renly or declare for Joffrey, but orders were orders, and Slynt’s were clear. It still made him laugh, thinking of Janos Slynt freezing to death on the Wall. Couldn’t have happened to a better arse-licker, you asked him.  


          Lord Darkwood’s guards were good men; quick to laugh, quick to share a joke or a drink. Their commander didn’t bark orders and expect everyone to hop to, either. When the group was put in the Tower of the Hand with the City Watch displaced by the men the queen insisted on bringing into the Red Keep, he’d groaned. Here were more noble-born arses, or else peasants didn’t know their swords from their cocks. The boys had proved to be neither in the week since they showed up, and he was almost sorry when he was told he was being cycled out to the city barracks the next day.  


          When he told Yarrow, one of Darkwood’s men, a few of them appeared with barrels of sweet Arbor red once their watch was done, and they were determined to enjoy as much of it as they were able before Qyburn returned with his sour glances and want for quiet. He imagined the little rodent had a great need of it, what with listening to people scream all day.  


          “Yer lord’s not ‘alf-bad, is he?” Nolth asked after his third cup, tongue already lax from the wine. If this was what real Arbor red was like, he’d skin every tavern wench who ever cheated him.  


          The Hayford man shrugged. Daven, he thought his name was. Shorter than most but muscled like a bull. “Our lord’s fine to those he likes. Less so to those he don’t.”  


          He raised his mug again. “Don’t know what I did t’warrant this,” he muttered, half the wine sloshing down his front.  


          “You’ve been good to King’s Landing.”  


          The sound of a body hitting the ground made him jerk. Half his men were either laid out across the tables or being helped to their beds by Hayford men. The lads were even being nice about taking their belts and boots. Nothing hurt worse than sleeping on a dagger all night. He stared at the man who’d fallen next to him, face down and unmoving. “Ge’up,” he nudged Horris with his boot.  


          The man didn’t stir.  


          Nolf stood. It was one thing to have a good time, quite another to embarrass yourself and get fall-down drunk, twelve hours to their next watch or not. At least, he tried to stand. His legs went funny halfway out of his chair, and he stumbled back, nearly falling out of the damn thing if Daven hadn’t grabbed his arm and righted him.  


          Nolf’s head felt heavier than Robert Baratheon’s gut, but he managed to look around. All over, his men were being dropped on bunks by Hayford men. Only Hayford men. There was something odd about that, something he needed to see about, but he passed out before he could put a finger on what it was.

  

          Spotted Eel led his five Unsullied along the halls of the great castle, keeping to the shadows. So far, none had seen them. There were fewer servants than Tyrion Lannister led them to believe, which was good. It would be better if there were fewer guards. The patrol they surprised walking down a hallway never knew they were there before their daggers were in their throats, their bodies dragged to a small chamber where he hoped they would not be discovered before dawn.  


          He and his group of five pressed against a wall at the sound of footsteps heading towards them. A quick glance revealed the source: A group of six men, four soldiers and two dressed in the fine clothing of highborns. One was tall, dressed in black, while the other, short and squat, wore dark blue. The two unarmed men would be a problem. They could raise the alarm while he and his men they dealt with the guards. They could retreat, but that ran the risk of being caught by others, and there was nowhere for them to hide. In moments, they would be seen and lose the advantage of surprise. Spotted Eel crouched low and felt his men do the same. They would have to be quick. The sound of a fight would draw others, and that was something they could not afford.  


          The moment they stepped into the path of their enemies, time seemed to slow. The squat man’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened as the guards in red and black armor reached for their weapons. The tall man stepped behind the lord and drew his dagger, stabbing it into his throat in one swift movement while soldiers with gold and green on their breastplates attacked the guards in Lannister armor that walked with them. In seconds it was over, the men dead and laid gently on the ground.  


          The tall man pulled his blade from the other’s throat and lowered him by the neck of his robe before straightening and flicking the blood off his weapon. “We are friends of the true queen,” he said in flawless Valeryian. 

  

          A hand shaking him for all it was worth woke Gamdon Marrs from the best sleep he’d had in years.  


          He’d been dreaming of Betha, a girl he hadn’t thought about in years; her flashing eyes and mischievous smile. The way she could make a man melt without saying a single word. They were walking along the beach, the sea air salty and free of the stench of shit and rotten fish, and she was laughing. He didn’t know what about, but she was laughing clear and bright, her eyes shining like two polished stones, her cheeks rosy with humor.  


          And then he was awake.  


          “S’ven hells.” He pushed blindly at the person shaking him. It was still dark outside, his candle hardly burned down at all. It couldn’t be much past the hour of ghosts.  


          “Beggin’ yer pardon,” a boy, the fuzz on his cheeks still soft as milk down, was chalk-white in the dim light of his quarters. “There’s word o’ fightin’ near the Old Gate. Said t’ rouse the Watch!”  


          “Who said?” Gamdon was moving before the boy (Telor? Tellen? Something that started with a T) finished speaking, slipping into his mail with the ease of long practice.  


          “A runner. One o’ the late patrols was set ’pon by half a hundred men with cudgels, maybe more, few streets from the Gate.” The boy was young, but his hands were swift and sure as they helped secure his armor. “Some o’ the new men tried t’ help but were overrun.” He could hear men in the barracks below: The sound of voices calling to arms, metal hitting metal and the skid of wood on stone.  


          _Fuck, damn, and blast!_ For weeks now they’d dealt with trying to police a city ready to string them up along with the highborns as if they had any say in what was going on. Half his men came back from their patrols with cuts and bruises from breaking up fights or rallies against the queen, the rest went about their business saying and seeing nothing and he didn’t blame either type. The place was going to the seven hells no matter what any of them did. “Any word from the other patrols?” He looked up from tying his sword belt. The boy (Tollen, that was his name) stared at him, eyes wide. “Speak up, boy!”  


          “None!” he squeaked with a jump.  


          Marrs thundered down the stairs and called for his men to follow him, leaving less than half and ordering Niles to run to the Western Barracks and see if there was news of ambushes in that section of the city.  


          King’s Landing was quiet as they made their way down the streets to the Iron Gate. There were no fires, no screams from men or horses, so it wasn’t that bad. Not yet, at least. This late there were none about but those looking to start trouble and those fleeing it, so he could be reasonably sure that any they met were the culprits responsible for attacking his men. From streets away he could hear the sound of men marching, too many for the half a hundred Tollen reported. It sounded like half of Flea Bottom was coming towards them.  


          When they turned onto the Old Street, he expected to see his men being beaten by an angry mob, slaughtered for the Cloaks they wore. Maybe strung up at the gate like Ash and Cote the month before, though the two deserved that or the Wall for what they did. What he did see made his blood run cold.  


          The Old Gate should have been the pitch black of solid wood, closed from dusk till dawn on order of the Queen. Instead, it was thrown open. Men poured into King’s Landing, marching down the Old Street in tight formation. Men wearing armor unlike any he’d ever seen, the thin shape of spears just visible in the darkness, shields on their arms. He heard the whisper of steel drawn behind him, barely aware of his own in his hand, as his men prepared to fight and knew it would be useless. There were hundreds coming through the gate uncontested, maybe thousands. No alarm had been raised, no bells rung. He looked up at the walls. A shape in a dark cloak passed in front of the large brazier, firelight glinting off plate armor. There were men up there then, men in Westerosi armor, but not the City Watch. Hayford men. They knew to knock the chains off the winch and drop the portcullis if the outer doors were breached, but they didn’t.  


          _We’re fucked.  
_

          A section of the soldiers stopped twenty feet from them while the others peeled off, heading down the side streets and further into the city. The group in front of him lowered their spears, shields up and at the ready.  


          “We are from Daenerys Targaryen,” the name rolled off the man’s tongue. “True queen of Westeros. She order all men to surrender. None who do to be harmed.”  


          One of his men charged forward with a cry, sword high. He expected a spear to go through the man’s neck. Instead, it whipped around and struck his helm so loud it rang like a bell before a foot was planted in his chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Marrs watched as two of the soldiers stripped his man of his helm and weapons before throwing the fool back at his feet, groaning.  


          There was a muffled curse behind him, a flutter of unease he could feel at his back that worked its way forward until one of his men swallowed loudly in his ear. 

          “They’ve flanked us, ser,” Alyn reported.  


          “Surrender,” their leader said again in his strange accent. “No harm if surrender.”  


          There were still men coming into the city, and all he had was a hundred men at his back.  


          _All this for a fucking chair.  
_

          He wasn’t going to die so Cersei could stay on her throne, and he wasn’t going to ask his men to, either.  


          “Stand down!” Gamdon ordered, sheathing his sword. When none of his men moved, he half-turned. “I said stand down you sons of whores! None of my men will die tonight!”  


          The men under his command looked to him, eyes wide behind their helms, hands shaking, but they did as ordered. He’d been part of the Watch for over fifteen years and lead men for near ten of that. He knew how to make his orders heard through panic.  


          “Tell men to remove weapons,” the one in front said.  


          Gamdon reached for his helmet and set it on the ground before undoing his sword belt. “Disarm,” he ordered. “Slowly.” There were a lot of fucking spears aimed at them, and not a one shook or faltered.  


          He breathed in relief when he heard his men doing the same and prayed he was doing the right thing. Half of them were near to starving, what with the rationing. They were doing better than most in the city, but that wasn’t saying much. He knew everything was going to shit when their pay switched from silver to bread. These men didn’t look starved or ready to piss themselves. They looked ready to kill. Every moment he was surprised he didn’t have a spear in his gut.  


          Once their weapons were on the ground they were lined up and marched out of the city, past the men still marching in, over the bridge and to the fields beyond. It was dark once they left King’s Landing, so dark he could barely see anything but the road in front of them until they were over a small rise.  


          Below were dozens, maybe hundreds, of Westerosi. Torches and braziers under heavy canvas gave the area some light, so he was able to make out the red crabs of House Celtigar, the Velaryon seahorse and the swordfish of Bar Eammon. There was also the fretted wavy of House Hayford, the chevronels of Rosby and wings of Rook’s Rest. The rose of Highgarden loomed large, as did the pierced sun of Dorne and a few of the smaller houses scattered about. They were led to the center of the group and handed into the care of a knight.  


          The man gave them a hard look. “You are prisoners of Queen Daenerys Targaryen. You will be treated according to your actions,” he told them, hand on the pommel of his sword. “Who is your commander?”  


          He stepped forward. “I am, ser. Gamdon Marrs, of East Barracks.”  


          The knight turned to him. “The lives of your men are in your hands. You’ll return to King’s Landing and order the men to surrender to the Unsullied and leave the city. They will be brought here, to wait. Those who surrender peaceably will not be harmed and retain their position in the City Watch. On my honor as a knight.”  


          He knew well the honor of knights. He’d had to clean up after more than one when they were too rough with a whore or spilled some drunkards guts in a bar fight. He ground his teeth and looked to his men. They were staring at him like he was the Father himself, come to save them from certain death.  


          When he took his oaths fifteen years ago, he swore to protect the Iron Throne, not the fool who sat on it. Pretty thing, that. “I’ll do that, m’ lord.”

  

          The mechanism at the top of the stair worked just as Varys said it would, much to Grey Worm’s relief. So far, everything the strange man said was true, and he and his men were able to navigate the dark passages with relative ease. Once the Red Keep was theirs, he would speak to his queen about finding ways to secure these hidden corridors. The Unsullied knowing them was good, it meant they could better protect their queen. Anyone else knowing of their existence was a problem that needed seeing to.  


          The man standing at the end of the hall was not only tall but massive, standing like a living blockade in the center of the hall. His sword was the near length of their spears, his eyes lost in his black helm. A demon, Grey Worm thought before pushing such things away. Missandei of Naath read many stories to him over the years, some of them about demons that walked among men. A demon could be killed if only one knew how. He did not have spells or items of magic, but he had his brothers and his sword and spear.  


          It would have to be enough.  


          As one they advanced down the hall, shields locked, spears at the ready, and Ser Strong did not move. Jorah the Andal spent months teaching them the places where the Westerosi armor was weak, where they could strike with their spears and find flesh. He ducked beneath the monster’s arm and slid his spear into a gap that revealed his armpit, felt his steel slice through cloth and strike flesh. He almost gagged at the odor that came from the wound before he was forced to back away lest a great fist smash into his head. It was a fatal wound for a normal man.  


          This Ser Strong did not flinch.  


          The man’s sword cut through his brother’s spears like sticks before reversing and gutting two that were not quick enough to jump back, shattering their shields. The haft of his spear snapped in the movement, the point still lodged in his flesh, no doubt digging further in with every movement, but the man made no sound. He did not retreat, only advanced, forcing them further from the door to the queen’s chambers, further from their target.  


          They broke formation now that it would be useless. Better to be multiple targets than a single unit easily contained. They danced around their enemy, stabbing where they could, meeting flesh when they were successful, hard metal when they were not. The monster picked Ground Cat up by his head and crushed his skull before flinging the corpse down the hall as if he were a doll.  


          Several more spears found their way into the monster’s body and were ignored. Slit Eyes was able to lodge his into its knee, which seemed to take the monster off balance enough for another to slash at its arm near the elbow. That hand went lax, the fingers limp. Grey Worm drew his sword. Piercing the creature would do them no good. Bleeding it did no harm.  


          While another of his brothers died in a spill of entrails a slim dagger flew through the air and slid neatly through the thin slit in his helm to catch in the creature’s left eye. When it paused in its slaughter to remove the metal Grey Worm circled around the creature and drew his sword along the backs of his left thigh. The long skirt did not hide more armor, and the creature buckled as the tendons were cut, that leg no longer able to hold his weight. Flayed Arm was beside him in moments, doing the same to his right.  


          They wasted no time hacking at its neck, arms, anywhere they could reach and still, the creature fought. It wasn’t until a blow nearly severed its head, sending putrid, black blood across the stone floor that the movements slowed, then finally stopped. Grey Worm looked at the hall. Fourteen of his brothers were dead or dying. Half of their number. _A demon,_ he thought as he gestured for seven to guard their back as the rest turned to the door to the queen’s chambers. _But all demons can be killed._

  

          The Red Keep thrummed.  


          At least, that’s what it felt like to Cersei. If King’s Landing was a body then the Red Keep was its beating heart, and she could feel it vibrating beneath her fingertips as she stared into the night and the city below. There was nothing to see, really. King’s Landing in winter was always dull compared to summer, and this winter would be harsh. The lawlessness in the Kingswood and surrounding countryside meant that wood was at a premium, so many of the braziers and lanterns that lit the city from dusk to dawn stayed dark, and dark streets were dangerous. Every week it seemed she was forced to listen to complaints from the City Watch about how they needed the streets lit for their safety as well as the safety of the city. She finally relented and sent a team of workers under the protection of Stokeworth’s men to the forest to begin felling trees.  


          Beyond the few lights of the city, Blackwater Bay was a blanket of darkness spread to the horizon. The starlight was weak, the moon hiding before its cycle began again. Her hands went to her abdomen; fingers splayed beneath her bellybutton. Her own cycle had yet to start as it should have weeks ago. Every day she waited for the dull pain and red blossom of her moonblood, but neither appeared. Since she first flowered her courses came regular as the tides unless she was with child. Perhaps that was why she felt as she did; as if the very stones beneath her feet were alive. She felt alive for the first time in months, maybe years, for there was new life in her. The life she and Jaime created. A piece of them both, nestled in her womb.  


          If it was true, she would not hide this miracle. Would not suffer their child carry another man’s name or live a lie. Their child would stand a Lannister and be proud. Jaime would be free to raise his son, to teach his boy what he knew, to pass on all the lessons he would need to be a good man and a good king. Once she dealt with the Targaryen slut she would wed her brother in the throne room. They would say their vows, be joined as they were always meant to be and begin their dynasty in truth, not shrouded by secrets.  


          The Targaryens wed brother to sister for generations. Why should they be the only ones to do as they liked? The Targaryens were no more noble than any other house, only remnants of a dead people who fled to Westeros to escape their own destruction. She almost called for Qyburn, the need to know a hot coal in her throat, but decided to wait as fear smothered the growing tendrils of hope taking root in her chest.  


          _“…three for you. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds…”_  


          “Spit on your prophecies,” Cersei whispered, hands tightening protectively. What did that old bitch know, anyway? She and Robert had a child, her first. Her raven-haired boy born too early and dead less than a month later. She would never forget how light he felt in her arms as the fever burned through his body, how his blue eyes shined all the brighter the few times they opened. Never for Robert or Pycelle or any of the wet-nurses that tried to get him to suck, only her. She wanted to name him Orys, after the founder of Robert’s house. She’d hoped their child would make things better. That once she bore him a son her husband would look at her with something other than detachment at best, loathing at worst, but it was never to be. He died in her arms, little lungs gasping for air when she would have given him every breath from her own if she were able.  


          Cersei breathed in against the sharp pain and tears that threatened to fall at the thought of her lost child. It was better that way, she knew now. Better that he die before he had a chance to live. Her other children died in pain. Joffrey and Myrcella poisoned, Tommen at his own hand. A fever when he was too young to know what was happening was better than that, it had to be.  


          She had four children, all told, proving Maggy the Frog a liar.  


          _Yet three who lived. Three who lived long enough for you to truly know them, love them. Three whose hair was Lannister gold.  
_

          Cersei turned away from her city. She would summon Qyburn in the morning. Perhaps it would be too early for him to tell, but she would give voice to her suspicions and ask for his advice. If she was pregnant, she would do everything in her power to safeguard the life inside her. She eyed the pitcher of wine on the small table she had placed on the balcony and ground her teeth.  


          She turned back to her bed, prepared to slide in next to her brother and froze, her heart in her throat.  


          Four men were in her chambers. Two had spears leveled at her, two others leveled at her brother, still sleeping. They stood like things from a nightmare, dark armor absorbing the weak candlelight.  


          They were going to die, here now, so soon after she discovered that finally, _finally,_ she had something to live for. Something to fill the emptiness in her soul.  


          _No,_ she could have screamed. _No, no nonononono….  
_

          “Jaime!”  


          He brother was moving before her scream finished, rolling towards the sound of her voice. Away from their enemies. Away from his sword and his armor, wearing only his smallclothes. In an instant, he was in front of her, his body between her and the assassins.  


          “Stay behind me!”  


          The men formed a line of spears and shield. “Surrender,” the one in the center said.  


          “Clegane!” she shouted. How did they get inside? 300 years, and never has the Red Keep been breached. Her guard would hear her.  


          “Surrender,” the slave said again. “In name of Daenerys Targaryen. No harm if surrender.”  


          When the door didn’t burst open immediately, she picked up a vase and threw it, hoping the noise would draw his attention. “I need you! Ser Strong!”  


          It was then she heard it, muffled noises from the hall outside. Enemies there as well.  


          She had no one. No one but her brother, crippled and near-naked, his weapon too far away to be any use. She saw the muscles of his back tense, felt the shift in him as if it were her own. Even crippled as he was, he was a knight.  


          “Go.”  


          It wasn’t a word anyone else would understand, spoken in a language they hadn’t used since they were children less than ten namedays old, but she remembered. She ran towards the door as he jumped into the center of the slaves, golden fist clanging as it connected with some piece of armor. She ran as fast as she could even as she heard wood hitting flesh, her brother’s cry. She had to reach Strong. Once he was at her side, she would be safe. Her child would be safe.  


          Her fingers brushed the door handle when a grip on her wrist, solid and unbreakable as iron, brought her up short and yanked her back.  


          “No!” She turned and swung, hand balled into a fist as Jaime taught her, but did nothing but hurt herself as her knuckles hit hard leather. In fact, she did nothing but knock his helmet to the floor, revealing the smooth face of a boy who looked no older than Joffrey.  


          Children. Her reign was ended by children.  


          “No fight,” the boy said as he grabbed her other hand and pulled out a length of leather. “No harm if no fight.”  


          Cersei spit in his face and tried to kick, but in seconds found herself on the floor, her knees aching from the impact as her hands were tied behind her back. Jaime was sprawled out on his stomach, blood flowing from a wound to his forehead.  


          When the door opened behind her, she felt a flare of hot satisfaction. Finally, Strong was here and they would die. When she was tugged to her feet and turned her heart sank. It wasn’t Ser Strong who stood in the door, it was more of the dark-skinned slaves in their strange armor, some bleeding. The one in front stared at her from behind his helm and said something too fast for her to follow in Valyrian.  


          She turned her gaze on him, stretching herself to her full height. “I demand that you release me!”  


          His head tilted as if he didn’t understand, which only infuriated her. “Did you hear me, you savage?” she hissed. “Release me!”  


          The slave removed his helm slowly. He wasn’t as young as the boy who tied her up, but he was still younger than she would have thought. Who were these savages? Were they so poorly trained that none survived past thirty? “I am Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied. You make no demands here,” the slave said, voice cold.  


          “I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms-”  


          “You are Queen of nothing,” he snapped back. “Daenerys Targaryen is queen, and she orders you to remain here, so here you will stay.” He looked her up and down. “You can dress if you choose, but you will not leave until you are summoned.”  


          Summoned, as if she were a common chambermaid.  


          Before putting his helm back on he gave what sounded like an order into the hall, and three more entered, taking up position by the door.  
The others picked Jaime up, ignoring her demands as they dragged away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> My life has been a pile of piss-soaked hot garbage, and I'm sorry I haven't been able to keep up with my roughly weekly update schedule. Hopefully, I will be able to get back to it from here on out. Thanks for sticking in there.
> 
>  
> 
> [ City Watch of King's Landing ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/City_Watch_of_King%27s_Landing)  
> [ House Rosby ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Rosby)  
> [ Ermesande Hayford ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Ermesande_Hayford)  
> [ Tyrek Lannister ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Tyrek_Lannister)  
> [ Dance of the Dragons ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Dance_of_the_Dragons)  
> [ Meraxes ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Meraxes)  
> [ Maggy the Frog ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Maggy_the_Frog)


	9. Entering King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys and company ride into the capital.

           The first time Daenerys rode Drogon was to save him.  


           She was resigned to die in the fighting pits of Meereen, Missandei and Jorah at her side. She reached out and took her friend’s hand, felt the desperate clutch of her strong fingers in her own and told herself she would not beg. These masked men would not see her cry, they would not make her kneel. She was blood of the dragon, and dragons did not cower before death.  


            When her son stormed out of the heavens breathing fire after so long away her soul soared with him. Her fearsome child, gone so long she dreaded he’d forgotten her, had somehow known his mother was in danger and returned to save her. But he was still young, his scales not hardened to steel as they would one day be, and the spears thrown by the Sons of the Harpy drew cries from him that wrenched her heart. She knew that he would not abandon her, would not fly to save himself, so she did the only thing she could do; climbed onto his back and asked him to save them both. She remembered her fear, that he was too young yet, that they would both die in the attempt, but then his wings caught the air and she was flying, the first person to ride a dragon in centuries.  


           Missandei laughed like a child behind her when Drogon swooped low over the water, his wings nearly brushing the surface before he drove back into the clouds. When she first approached Drogon, Missandei did so with the air of a woman meeting her execution. Daenerys climbed onto his back before her, settling herself and speaking sweetly to her child, reminding him of how Missandei was his friend, had always been his friend, and that it was only for a little while. It wasn’t until her son turned his head and extended his wing that her advisor dared come closer and climb with surprising dexterity onto his back.  


           The first hour of their journey to King’s Landing Missandei kept her head buried in her back, and though she couldn’t feel her friend’s arms around her she could see how the skin of her hands paled with the tightness of her grip. Slowly, Missandei relaxed, and when Drogon flew over a cloud bank only for Viserion to punch through it from below, trailing mist as he twirled in midair, she laughed. The sound filled Daenerys with joy. Everyone was afraid of her dragons. She was the only one who saw how they played with each other as they flew and knew the beauty of viewing the world from above as they did. How breathtaking it was to move faster than the wind. Being able to share that with her friend, even if it would only be once, eased an ache she didn’t know was there.  


           After another hour the darkness of the horizon began to solidify, the single line growing into what could be hills, gaining color and scope, and she felt her breath catch as her heart hammered in her chest.  


            _Westeros._  


            How many times had she dreamed of it? Tried to piece together the place she was born from fractured stories and half-forgotten images? The books Jorah gave her at her wedding were near falling apart she’d thumbed through them so much, devouring everything she could to know the place she was supposed to belong.  


            When the pale stone walls of the capital became visible she turned Drogon south. King’s Landing extended out into Blackwater Bay, the buildings piled almost on top of each other. At the end of the sprawling capital, the Red Keep loomed, its spires standing proud in the early morning sunlight. The castle her ancestors built to rule the country they stitched together with fire and blood. She circled away, her children at her side, and flew northwest, to where her army waited.  


           They were easy to spot. A sizeable host waited outside the Gate of the Gods, a sea of banners, men, tents, and horses. The well-organized mass of the Unsullied stood or sat in place. Near them were her bloodriders in a tight clump with their horses, no doubt eyeing the Westerosi that waited a short distance away, who she was sure did the same. Time, she told herself. In time, they will learn to work together.  


           The Westerosi numbered less than five hundred, minus the Hayford and Stokeworth forces that were to work with the Unsullied to keep the peace in the capital and secure the Red Keep. Many of the Crownland houses sent token numbers; twenty to thirty soldiers. A show of support easily explained away as being made under duress if her gambit failed. She didn’t recognize many of the flags, but the spear-pierced sun of Dorne and the golden rose of Highgarden were the most prominent.  


           With little more than a thought, she set Drogon to circle wide and in moments they were on the ground several yards away from the encampment, his great wings kicking up dust as he landed. Most of the knights cowered away from her child, but there were a few who held their ground, though their faces were white and their hands clutched at their swords. When she and Missandei were on the ground she expected Drogon to take to the skies with Rhaegal and Viserion, but her eldest child remained. She could feel him eyeing the men around her, his great form tense. He knew the Dothraki and Unsullied, trusted them in a way, but these new people in their metal armor were unknown to him. He did not like their smell.  


            Daenerys rubbed the smooth scales near his eye, setting off a harsh purr she could feel in her chest. _“It’s all right,”_ she said in Valyrian. _“These men will not hurt me.”_  


           Drogon swung his head around and bared his teeth before nudging her gently and letting out a low rumble. She remembered when the sound was a rolling coo in the days he was small enough to ride on her shoulders.  


            “Your Grace.”  


           Tyrion’s voice made her turn her attention to her men. The Westerosi watched her with expressions that varied from awe to sheer terror, far more the latter than the former. They did not believe, she realized as she watched them take her in son and crane their necks to watch her other children. She was called the Mother of Dragons, and still many did not believe until that moment. “My Lord Hand.”  


           Tyrion knelt, something he had not done since she named him Hand of the Queen, and behind him, the Westerosi followed suit in a rolling wave. Horo and the rest of her bloodriders looked on in satisfaction. She was the Stallion that Mounts the World, and it was only right that these people show her proper respect.  


           That seemed to be what Drogon was waiting for. With a roar and a bat of his heavy wings, he took flight, soaring over the encampment. It sent the horses rearing along their picket lines, and more than one man let out a curse when an animal pulled free.  


           “Rise, my lords,” she said formally, pitching her voice low and loud.  


           Tyrion was the first to follow the order, though she was pleased to see her people do so with only a slight hesitation. Good. She was not here to instill fear in anyone.  


            Now that Drogon was gone, they were able to focus on her.  


            " _You will be a foreigner to them,_ Ser Barristan told her what felt like a lifetime ago. _"You were born on Dragonstone but raised in Essos. Many lords have traveled no farther than twenty miles from the castle they were born in, at least not willingly. There will be those who will use it against you, Your Grace. You cannot let them._ "  


           She and Ser Barristan spent hours going back and forth on how she should enter King’s Landing. The styles of Essos were far and away from those worn in Westeros, especially southern Essos. The filmy gowns of Meereen were considered indecent anywhere except perhaps Dorne and would not be appropriate for the weather besides. A balance needed to be struck between the person she was in the queen she needed Westeros to see her as. She would not have thought a knight paid attention to such things, but he was a wellspring of information when it came to what was and was not acceptable attire in Westeros.  


           The one thing he would not give on was armor.  


_“I’ve seen arrows fell to many, Your Grace,” Barristan said when she tried to argue against it. “You would fight for your throne, only for a Lannister loyalist to kill you from a rooftop before ever stepping foot in the Red Keep. There is nothing foolish about protecting yourself.”’  
_

_Jorah agreed. “However King’s Landing falls until you restore order and the people feel safe you will be in a warzone.” Before she could protest he took a small step forward. “Khaleesi, please…”  
_

           She, Ser Jorah, and Ser Barristan spent hours designing and redesigning the armor she would wear when she took King's Landing. They were all agreed that it would not be full plate; it would be too unwieldy on Drogon without a proper harness, which her son was steadfastly against. The few times they tried to approach him with anything even resembling a saddle he filled his mouth with fire and glared as if daring them to come closer. The one time she continued despite his warning he shook the offending piece off before she could secure it properly and set fire to it before flying off and disappearing for a sennight.  


           When they were done Jorah insisted on the metalwork being done in Qohor, and Ser Barristan agreed. The best metalsmiths in the known world were there, including those who could rework Valyrian steel. When the Qohorik armorer Joro Iranin delivered the finished pieces to the Great Pyramid, she felt tears prick the corners of her eyes. The cuirass was polished steel, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen embossed in exquisite detail high on the chest and enameled the color of blood. The spaulders were etched with dragons in the Qohorik style, wings spread, an addition Joro made as he felt the unetched pieces were unworthy of the Dragon Queen. The tassets that attached to the breastplate were inlaid with thin lines of moon-pale Valyrian steel in the sweeping script of her people. Maille chausses to protect her legs and a hauberk finished the ensemble.  


            It was not the onyx, ruby-studded armor of Rhaegar or the legendary scaled mail of Aegon and his sister-wives. It was something that was hers.  


           The armor was heavy, but she could move in it better than she would have thought. She spent hours walking around in it to grow familiar with its weight, and she and Missandei spent hours more practicing donning and removing the armor until they could dress her in less than ten minutes, provided her undergarments were a simple shirt and hose.  


           Today, they were not.  


           She did wear woolen hose to protect her skin from the chausses but it was coupled with a long-sleeved linen underdress. Between the hauberk and cuirass, she wore an overdress of dove-gray wool so smooth and fine it could be mistaken for silk. The split-sleeves revealed the well-tailored hauberk beneath that extended to the bend of her elbows. The skirt of the underdress was long in the Westerosi fashion and echoed the color of the jacket. Most important, it was wide enough that riding astride was possible. A cape trailed behind her, as red as the dragon on her breastplate, patterned after the scales of her children, and a red kerchief of the same color was knotted at her throat .  


            “King’s Landing is yours, Your Grace,” Tyrion reported. “There were minimal causalities on both sides. From what Grey Worm reported less than two hundred Unsullied were killed, seven hundred Lannister soldiers and Gold Cloaks.”  


           She closed her eyes. “Once the city settles, I want the names of those who died,” she ordered. “If they have a family I would see them looked after. They should not suffer because they fought for the wrong queen.”  


           Tyrion bowed. “As you will, Your Grace.”  


           A murmur went up among the men close enough to hear her words.  


            Movement among the knights caught her attention. Several were separating themselves from the group, and her eyes roved over their armor. Tyrion and Varys spent many hours going over the lords she would encounter so she could recognize them by sight. _“Recognizing a man you’ve never met is one way to throw them off balance,”_ Varys revealed to her while they worked. _“It says you know things about them and leaves them wondering what those things are. Whether you do or not is irrelevant, it’s the_ idea _that is important.”_  


           She smiled at the man at their head. He was the oldest, his white hair thick, a red crab on his gorget. “Lord Ardrian,” she said. “It is good to finally meet you.”  


           If he was pleased or concerned, she couldn’t tell. “Your Grace,” he answered with a bow. His gaze flitted to Missandei before coming back to her. “We have waited long years for the Targaryens to return to Westeros.” A loud screech from Rhaegal drew his eyes skyward. To his credit, his flinch was barely visible. “Though I never imagined it would be on dragon back.”  


            “I only wish my brother were here to see this day,” she answered.  


            “I’m sure Prince Viserys would have made a good and just king.”  


          _Viserys would have set half the city afire and ordered the Dothraki to kill the survivors._ She turned to the lords with him. “Lord Waylar, I am glad to see you again.”  


           The Lord of Sweetport Sound was much recovered, his thinning blonde hair no longer greasy with sweat, his pale complexion free of any sickly green. “And I you, Your Grace.”  


           Daenerys turned her attention to the youngest member of the group. The boy’s brown eyes were so wide they looked ready to fall out of his head. “Lord Duram. It is good to meet you as well.”  


           The boy squeaked at her attention, then blushed to the roots of his dark hair. “A…and I you.” His hands gripped the white material of his tabard so hard she feared he would rip it. Her eyes went past him to a man wearing the leaping horse of House Bracken. “Lord Wyllis.”  


           Wyllis Bracken straightened; the widening of his eyes betrayed some surprise that she knew him. House Bracken sided with Robert Baratheon during the Rebellion. “Your Grace.”  


            Her eyes flitted to the last of them. Lord Daemon Darkwood was at the rear of the group. He was the only man aside from Tyrion not wearing armor, only a sword and dagger, and stood at least a head above every man there. “Lord Daemon.”  


            “Your Grace.”  


           She took in the two of them. “I understand I have you to thank for opening the gates for my army and helping to contain the City Watch. Your men saved thousands of lives last night.”  


            Bracken puffed up, no doubt about to launch into a practiced speech, but Darkwood beat him to it. “It was our duty and honor, my Queen.”  


           Bracken shot him a sour look. “House Stokeworth stands ever ready, Your Grace.”  


           Daenerys gave them a small nod. They were the largest of the Houses that came to her side, the most important. She would see to the smaller lords later.  


           She turned to her Unsullied to see them standing at attention, Gutted Shark waiting at their head. She gave him a nod before heading to the group of Dothraki and the mount she would ride into King’s Landing. Most of the Westerosi lords fell back, but Ardrian stayed at her side, undaunted by the men of her khalasar.  


            _“They have you in their metal shirts,”_ Qhoro remarked, eyeing the lord with unconcealed disgust. She knew well the Dothraki disdain for armor.  


            _“The city may not be safe,”_ she answered. _“There may be assassins waiting.”_  


           A growl went up among her bloodriders, and Haro spat. _“Let us cleanse the Stone City for you, Khaleesi. We will dig out those who would hurt you and make a gift of their balls.”_  


            “Is there a problem, Your Grace?” Lord Ardrian asked. He may not have understood their words, but the violence behind them was unmistakable.  


           “We are well,” Daenerys answered. She turned to Qhoro. _“Such a gift is not needed. The metal shirt will do for now.”_  


           They looked unconvinced but fell slightly behind her as Kono approached with her horse.  


            The stallion was beautiful, bred by a khalasar that roved farther north and east than most. He was meant to be a prize for the winner of one of the tournaments during the celebrations at Vaes Dothrak but was gifted to her once she claimed them as her khalasar. His coat was the most beautiful she’d ever seen, soft gold that shone in the light so brightly he appeared covered in gold dust, with a mane as pale as her own hair. Despite his delicate coloring the stallion was heavily muscled and nearly sixteen hands high, a worthy prize for any Khal. She wondered, in the long days back to Meereen, what a foal from her Golden and her Silver would have looked like if Drogo’s gift to her survived the Red Wastes.  


           If it would look like starlight.  


            _“Hello, my beauty,”_ she whispered in Dothraki, and smiled when her Golden whickered softly when he pressed his nose to her chest, then snorted when he encountered hard steel.  


            “I’m glad you’re here,” Tyrion said as she ran a hand down the horse’s neck. “I was afraid the Dothraki would gut the first knight or lord who got too close to him. I’ve had more than a few ask about breeding the beast.”  


            Daenerys looked to the Westerosi. “Among the Dothraki, a man can share his food, his tent, his woman under the right circumstances. He will not share his horse. Even Drogo and I never rode together.” The only way to take a Dothraki’s horse was to kill him or to steal it. There were many tales of men hunting the Dothraki Sea in search of a stolen mount and the things done to the perpetrator once caught. She gave her Golden a final pat and turned. A young man approached, them, wide eyes focused on the Dothraki who formed a wall between them. _“Let him pass,”_ she ordered.  


           “Your Grace.” The boy bowed.  


           “Ethon Dogget, Your Grace,” Tyrion filled in. “Former ward of Gyles Rosby and acting regent of his estate.”  


           The boy could not have been older than fifteen, his body stuck in that place between adolescence and adulthood where everything was just slightly out of place. His features were rough and tumble, and his hair and eyes almost the exact same shade of deep brown. His brigandine was a few sizes too large on his lanky frame, the gorget bearing the chevronels of House Rosby almost swinging on his thin neck, but he stood tall. The wideness of his eyes betrayed his nervousness, as did his heavy swallow.  


            “My lord,” she said with a smile.  


           Ethon blushed to the roots of his hair and ducked his head.  


           “Unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, boy.”  


           The gruff words made the young man jump and swing around. Lady Olenna approached, walking stick clutched in her hand, flanked by two guards who looked so much alike they must have been twins. She examined Daenerys with an expert eye before giving a single nod of approval. She turned to her Golden and gave him the same examination. “Willas would have paid his weight in gold to get his hands on this horse,” she said.  


            Willas? She turned to Tyrion, who gave a small shake of his head.  


           The Lady of Highgarden dismissed the animal. “I thought you would ride your dragon to the Red Keep,” she said. “That you would be a dragon.”  


            Daenerys gave Olenna her coolest gaze. “I am a dragon. My mount does not change that. The people need to see their queen.” By all reports, Cersei was an inattentive queen, even before the wars began. Seen only during tourneys or other celebrations and even then, only at a distance. She could never be absent from her people in such a way.  


            Olenna gave her another of those assessing looks. Before turning her gaze to Lord Ardrian. She could feel the man bristling at her side. The Lady of Highgarden looked like a cat eyeing a wounded bird. “Lord Celtigar.”  


            “Lady Tyrell.”  


           “Happy to be on the winning side, for once?”  


           “Do you plan to ride, or will you travel by carriage, Lady Olenna?” Daenerys asked before she could comment further.  


           “I haven’t been on a horse in more years than you’ve been alive. Varys arranged for one of the royal carriages to see to me.”  


            “Perhaps riding would do you good,” Ellaria said as she swayed up to them, her daughters in tow and Yara at her side. Obara wore leather armor over a padded jacket of yellow silk, while Tyene and Nymeria were dressed in Dornish finery like their mother. Yara wore roughly the same outfit she wore to greet her in Meereen, though the quilted shirt and trousers she wore beneath her armor looked to be of Meereenese make, the leather cleaned and oiled. “There is something to be said for having such power between your legs.”  


           “Lady Ellaria. Lady Yara”  


           “Your Grace.” Ellaria Sand was smiling, perhaps the first true smile she’d ever seen on the woman since meeting her months ago. It eased the harsh lines from her eyes and softened her features. “We are ready to accompany you into the city.”  


            Yara’s expression was bored. “That’s if these mainlanders are done sticking their noses up your arse.”  


           Daenerys turned to King’s Landing. The Gate of the Gods stood open, the high walls manned by Unsullied and Westerosi loyal to her. “Inform the lords that we march into the city as soon as they are in their saddles, Lord Hand.” She looped the reins over her Golden’s head and reached for his mane.  


           “Your Grace, I will call for a mounting block-” Lord Ardrian said quickly.  


           She swung into the saddle easily, startling the Westerosi lords. The Dothraki showed no reaction, nor would they. She was their Khaleesi, and no Khaleesi worth following would find it difficult to mount a horse, no matter what she wore. She rearranged her skirt while Missandie fussed with her cape so that it fell neatly behind her.  


           “My thanks, but unnecessary, Lord Ardrian,” she said as her bloodriders mounted around her.

  

           King’s Landing stank.  


           Daenerys fought the urge to cover her nose as they traveled down the High Road to the Red Keep. It wasn’t just the scent of unwashed bodies and refuse that assaulted her. Sickness lingered in the air, mixed with death and shit, urine and blood. The air from the sea pushed the foulness upwind, but inside the walls it was inescapable.  


           Tyrion glanced up at her. “You’ll get used to it,” he said brightly. “Just be grateful it isn’t the middle of summer.”  


           It was cold enough that she was still slightly chill in her layers.The thought of that fetid stench heated almost made her gag. “I have no desire to ‘get used to it’,” Daenerys answered. “Meereen is over a thousand years old, and it didn’t smell like this.”  


           “Meereen had the benefit of architects who saw to the building of the city as well as the Great Pyramids,” Tyrion countered. “Your ancestors cared more for the construction of their monuments than the city that sprouted up around them.”  


            “A state of affairs I mean to fix at the earliest possible convenience.” If she had to scour the libraries of Astapor and Meereen and rebuild her capital from the ground up, she would see it done. Living in such conditions couldn’t be good for her people.  


           Her entrance into King’s Landing was not how she imagined it. As a child, she imagined entering the city with her brother at her side, the people cheering the return of their rightful king and queen. Then came Drogo with his visions of slaughter and glory, King’s Landing conquered like the Essosi cities of old. As she came into her own, she envisioned riding over the gates on Drogon, her children at her side as she cowed her enemies with the threat of what she could do.  


           This silent march was far and away from any of those things.  


           When she entered the gates of Mereen, the slaves threw flowers at her feet, yelled her name and titles and greeted her as their savior. The residents of King’s Landing watched her with wary expressions on their gaunt faces, the few that braved the street kept their bodies tensed to run at the first sign of violence. Mother’s clutched their children close and men watched the Unsullied that formed a thick wall on either side of their procession. There were some bright faces, but those were few and far between.  


           Daenerys kept her head high, her back straight, but felt the weight of the crowd pressing down on her. She wondered what they thought of her, these people she would rule. Did they see her as a little girl, as so many did? Was she a frightening conqueror, a foreign whore, a burner of women and children as Cersei claimed?  


           “This is the second time King’s Landing has had an army at its gates in less than ten years, Your Grace,” Lord Celtigar said. “The third time in twenty. Many of these people remember what happened when Tywin Lannister sacked the city.”  


            “I am not Tywin Lannister,” Daenerys said coldly.  


            “And for that, they will be ever grateful,” he responded.  


            Daenerys straightened on her horse, drawing on every bit of calm she could summon. They didn’t know her. She was sure Cersei spread false tales of her to frighten the people. Some of her acts could be seen as brutal without the proper context, but she never harmed the innocent, and the people of King’s Landing were innocent. They did not choose their queen.  


            _“They will love you the way we love you, Your Grace,”_ Missandei said in High Valyrian, her voice quiet and sure. _“Once they know you, they will have no choice.”_  


           She took their presence in the streets at all as a good sign. Several standards the people would recognize were mixed with her Unsullied. For every contingent, there was an equal number of soldiers from the houses of the Crownlands and Reach that swore fealty to her and the people seemed to relax slightly at their appearance. The golden rose of Highgarden, the red crabs of House Celtigar, the stars of House Mallery, the seahorse of House Velaryon and the mullets of House Sunglass waved in the cold air. The lamb and cup of Stokeworth and the checkered gold and green of House Rosby were among them. A sign to the people that she was supported by Westerosi and not just a foreign queen with an invading army.  


           “It’s probably the first time all but the oldest of them have seen a Targaryen, Your Grace,” Garrel Mallery added. “Your father was not known for his public appearances.”  


            _Good,_ she thought. She did not want the people to associate her more with her father than they already did. Ser Barristan’s words haunted her still. She would not be like her father. The people of King’s Landing did not love her yet, but they would. Once they understood that she was not there to harm them.  


            More people appeared the closer they came to the Red Keep until the streets were crowded with her subjects. They did not press against the Unsullied, for which she was grateful. The few feet that stood between them allowed her some measure of peace as they traveled. Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion soared lazily high above the city, visible but not threatening. Her people were afraid enough. She had no intention of starting a stampede that would cause injuries or deaths.  


           The gates of the Red Keep were open and manned by Unsullied and soldiers wearing the colors of House Hayford. Above them what she thought were roundels solidified into heads, or what remained of them, at least twenty on spikes. Her jaw clenched. “My Lord Hand?”  


           “Your Grace?”  


           She tilted her chin. “Those are to be removed immediately.”  


           Grey Worm stood in the center of the outer yard, hands folded at his back, Varys at his side. Her Master of Whispers looked none the worse for wear, his expression as placid as always as she swung down from her horse.  


           “Your Grace,” he said.  


            “My Queen,” Grey Worm moved to the side. “The castle is secured.”  


           “Were any of the common people harmed?”  


           “None, My Queen,” Grey Worm reported. “Those soldiers that surrendered were stripped of their armor and weapons, as you ordered. They are being held the barracks under guard.”  


            Happiness bubbled in her chest. She’d done it. She’d taken the Red Keep, and only those that opposed her were killed. A near bloodless coup, something unheard of.  


            “And Cersei?” Tyrion asked once he was on the ground. “The Kingsguard?”  


           “She lives. She has been confined to her apartments, Unsullied with her at all times. One of her guardians was killed. The others surrendered once she was taken.”  


           Then she was as safe as she could be.  


           The inner bailey of the Red Keep was a charnel house, the bodies of the Lannister soldiers laid out. Here was the price of her coup laid bare, and sadness threatened her elation from moments before. Soldiers die in war, she reminded herself.  


           Near the back of the rows, she stopped, eyes wide. At first, she thought they were passing a pile of armor, but as she neared she saw it was another soldier, this one dressed in black armor. Even lying down, the man was massive. He was easily the largest man she’d ever seen, taller than Drogo. “Who was he?”  


           “One of the guards said he was Ser Strong, My Queen,” Grey Worm said.  


            “The Mountain,” Tyrion corrected. “I'd recognize the man anywhere, though he looks much the worse for wear. One of my father’s weapons. I thought he died with Oberyn.”  


           “Cersei’s monster,” Lord Celtigar said, the word curdled with disgust. “The tales of the things that creature has done to the people of King’s Landing are legion.”  


           The man looked diseased. His skin was sickly green even in death, the skin on one side of his face pitted and scaled. Ichor crusted at the base of his nose and ears as if some internal corruption struggled to escape, and his remaining eye was a pit of darkness.  


           “He kill sixteen Unsullied before dying,” Rotted Hand said. “With a dagger through the eye, he fought.”  


           Daenerys looked up. “How is that possible?”  


            _“It is a demon,”_ Black Wort muttered in Valyrian.  


           A gasp drew her attention and Daenerys turned. Ellaria was standing with her daughters, all of them staring at the Mountain with undisguised loathing.  


           “That thing killed my love,” Ellaria said as she approached with careful steps. “Oberyn tipped his spear with manticore venom. He wanted to be sure Clegane died, no matter what happened. He should not have lived.”  


           “However he did, he is dead now.” Tyrion looked up to her. “Shall we continue, Your Grace?”  


           They made their way to the stairs that led to the throne room, and she felt the lords that followed her fall back at a word from Varys. The doors to the throne room were open, the great space empty. Sunlight poured in through the high windows, and behind the Iron Throne, the stained glass seven-pointed star threw golden light into the room. Her footsteps echoed on the marble tiles, the vision from the House of the Undying playing in her mind. She fought the urge to look behind one of the pillars in search of a small hut, told herself the echoes she heard were of the Unsullied moving through the castle, not the faint cries of a baby.  


            With a shuddering breath, Daenerys focused on the centerpiece of the room. Viserys often spoke of the Iron Throne, the seat of their family’s power before they were exiled. In his stories, it towered over the tallest man with deadly blades poised to strike at any who dared approach. She conjured a fantastical structure in her mind as a child; sword blades still dark with the blood of Aegon’s vanquished enemies pointing at all angles, something dangerous to even look at, let alone sit on. She reached out and touched one of the blades, only to pull back her finger when she was nicked. A bead of blood welled from the small cut. “They are still sharp,” she mused.  


           “Aegon never had the swords blunted, Your Grace,” Varys said apologetically. “He believed that no ruler should sit easily during their rule. Robert had some ground down when he took the throne. With so many, it’s no surprise a few were missed.”  


           “I’m glad he didn’t get them all,” she ran her hand, careful this time, down the arm. The steel was cold beneath her hand. “Aegon was right.”  


           She turned and slowly sat. The hard seat was uncomfortable, to be sure, but it was not untenable. Daenerys felt tears prick at her eyes, and she blinked them away as a strange melancholy seeped into her. _Home._ Never in her life had she imagined having such a place. The home her brother spoke of was nothing to her, the pictures he painted colorless things that held no meaning. For a short time, Drogo was her home, his arms the only place she felt she belonged. After he was taken from her, she never thought she’d have that feeling again.  


           Daenerys tucked the smile that threatened to spread across her face away. She wanted to weep, to scream for joy, to run until she could run no further. To spread her wings and dance on the wind as Viserion did. After so many years, so many heartbreaks, so much struggle, she was _here_. She was Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of the Andals, the Rohynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The usurpers who stole her family's throne were defeated. She would save her smiles for later. 

          As one, Missandei, Varys, Tyrion, and Grey Worm bowed. She turned to her Hand. “The proclamations?”  


          “Prepared, Your Grace,” Tyrion answered. “Waiting only for the ravens to fly.”  


          "Excellent. See that they do before the day is out."

* * *

          Davos thought northerners a strange lot. 

          He’d seen stranger. They didn’t dye their hair bright colors like the Tyroshi or worship sex like Summer Islanders. They certainly didn’t pretend at honor and chivalry like some southern knights did, all the while drinking, whoring, and killing as they pleased. Northmen were surprising blunt and straightforward in their assessments and affections. If they didn’t like or trust you, you knew it. You felt it. If they liked and respected you it was felt just as keenly, if not more so. The Free Folk were the same, though he doubted any of the lords of the North would like the comparison. It was probably why after weeks of glaring at each other, expecting the other to plant a knife in their back, the Free Folk who remained in and around Winterfell managed to become less unwanted guests and more slightly estranged neighbors. 

          Northerners had a prickly definition of honor as well. An insult could be taken with a grain of salt or lead to fisticuffs and spilled blood, but they would be damned if it happened in Winterfell. They would not disgrace their king so. It was strange, thinking he would have a role in leading them. As Stannis’s Hand, he rarely had the chance to do more than give advice on what was happening. He liked to think he was a tempering agent on his king; a voice of reason that fought the Red Woman’s sorcery and lies. It wasn’t that he knew more than Stannis; he didn’t even know how to read when he was first given the position. He simply understood his liege could get lost in the necessity of performing his duties. 

          It was one thing he enjoyed about Jon. Jon Snow was just as beholden to what he thought was his duty as Stannis, but he seldom lost track of what should be done in what needed to be done. He saw it as a testament to Ned Stark’s raising, that his son was able to keep hold of himself. As Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Jon Snow did what he thought was right, and that was invariably what benefited the greater good. He had no doubt that he would continue to do so as King in the North. 

          Sansa was another beast entirely. 

          From the moment she first rode into Castle Black, Brienne and Podrick at her side, she was an enigma. He wouldn’t have known she was Jon’s sister, as he rarely spoke of the family he left behind in Winterfell. Davos could just remember seeing her as a young girl at Robert’s tourney. The way she smiled when Loras Tyrell gave her a rose before his joust. 

          The years had not been kind to the girl. She went from daughter of a Warden to a princess of the realm to a pariah at court. Stannis was disgusted at the things it was said Joffrey did to her, took it as another sign that he was a bastard born of incest. Her marriage to Tyrion was obviously against the girl’s will, though it must not have been too terrible, with how she spoke of him. He didn’t know how she came to be with Baelish, but the result was her marriage to Ramsay. A marriage that led her to flee to Castle Black. 

          It was easy to think the girl hard as beaten steel. Her blue eyes were always calm and assessing, her expression somewhere between content and haughty. She was a woman carved from ice and snow, flame-haired and undeniable as winter. It had fooled him until the night he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see. 

          _He was walking the halls of Winterfell. He would have preferred the yard or battlements, but the cold was enough to drive him indoors. In a hall near the family quarters he came upon Ghost scratching at the door to one of the smaller storerooms. No doubt he’d heard or smelled some rat or other vermin. When he was close the direwolf turned red eyes (eyes that were far too knowing, too intelligent, to belong to an animal) to him and let out a soft whine._

          _“All right,” Davos said cheerfully as he opened the door. “But if you’re sniffing after someone’s pilfered ham, I’m not-“_

          _Ghost nearly knocked him down in his haste to get through the open door, forcing him to half-stumble before he caught himself._

          _It was a storeroom, filled with the odds and ends that build up in a castle, the dust heavy enough to make his nose twitch. He watched Ghost’s large shape crouch low to the floor and begin near-crawling towards a shape in the far corner. As his eye adjusted to the darkness the shape solidified into Sansa Stark, body folded so tight she looked little more than a child. Her breathing was too fast for someone just sitting, and her face was utterly blank. “My Lady?” he asked, striding forward._

          _He was across the room, but she flinched back so violently at his words her head rebounded off the wall. The dull thud of it made him wince and stop, but her expression didn’t change. Ghost was in front of her now, trying to work his nose beneath her clenched fists._

          Dear Seven, had someone attacked the girl? _Davos examined her as much as he was able. Sansa’s hair was neatly pulled back, the braids at her temples unruffled. From what he could see of her dress nothing looked torn or dirtied. Still, her breath was coming in short gasps as if she’d run for her life. He took a slow step forward. “Lady Sansa, are you well?”_

          _He’d seen plenty of blind men, and men going blind. The glare off the sea was unforgiving, and years of it could claim a man’s vision as easily as a storm did his life. Sansa’s eyes had that same sightlessness now._

          _“My Lady?” Davos asked again, voice as gentle as he could make it._

          _Ghost gave up on her hands and settled for laying in front of her, ruby eyes staring into the room. His great form made her look even smaller._

          _He’d heard something like it before in a sailor who’d been lost at sea for weeks. The first time he tried to set foot on a ship he’d frozen and sobbed like a child until he was led away. No tears fell from Sansa, but something in the set of his shoulders made him think they were spilling just the same._

          _He had no experience with this. He feared she would hurt herself trying to get away if he approached. Finding Jon meant leaving her alone, and he wouldn’t do that._

          _“Have you ever been to Braavos?” The question was foolish, he knew it, but it filled the suffocating silence. “I remember the first time I saw it. I was…sixteen… I think I was. I’d been sailing for five years by that time. Been to Pentos, Myr, even Tyrosh.” He looked around him and tested his weight on an old trunk. It groaned in protest but held. “First time I ever saw a woman with purple hair. She was wearing a dress that was more air than dress, and her hair was the brightest shade of lilac.” He shook his head. “Every time we left port the older sailors spoke of the Titan; how it was one of the last true wonders in the world._

          _“It was near winter by the time we made it up the coast. Our Captain said the first glimpse of the Titan was always best at sunrise. There I was, standing on deck bundled up so I could barely feel my own arms, waiting to see this thing they hadn’t stopped talking about for weeks. It was nothing at first, just a glare on the horizon, but then we got closer.”_

          _He breathed in as the memory took him. “At first it looks like a spire, out in the water. Then you get closer and you see this thing is a man. There’s men paid by the city that keep the bronze scrubbed so it never turns, and when the sun hit it the Titan lit up the horizon and let out the loudest roar you’ve ever heard. We were a few miles out still, and we could hear it. When you sail beneath it you feel like you’re sailing beneath a god. A hundred feet of carved stone and bronze. Maalor said the Sealords of old had it enchanted so it came alive at their call and fought to defend the city. That’s how they managed to keep the dragons at bay.”_

          _Some of the blankness was gone from her eyes when he finished speaking, her breathing just a bit slower, so he continued. “Braavos is a beautiful city. The City of 1000 islands, I think they call it. You’d think the whole thing would stink to high heaven, but I was told something to do with the tides keep the canals clean enough.” He shrugged. “It still smells like saltwater and fish.”_

          _Behind him the door opened quickly, revealing a pale Brienne and Jon. The king whispered something to Brienne, and she nodded, casting Sansa a concerned look before closing the door quietly._

          _“Sansa,” Jon’s voice was soft as he approached. He stopped next to Davos. “Sansa, I’m here.”_

          _Her eyes focused, slowly moving up until they were on his face. “Jon?” Her voice was hoarse._

          _He took the shuddering woman in his arm, careful as if she were made of spun glass._

          _It took long minutes for the violent quaking of her shoulders to ease, the quick cadence of her breath to calm to something approaching normal. Once it did Jon stood slowly, taking Sansa with him. She was as shaky on her feet as a newborn colt, her fingers dug into his forearm as if she were afraid he would vanish._

          _“Ser Davos,” Jon finally looked at him. His words were soft, but his face was lined with a harsh mixture of sorrow and anger. “If you could go to Maester Wolkan’s study and ask for a calmative for Lady Sansa.”_

          _“At once, Your Grace.” He was moving before he finished speaking, straining not to break into a run. The sight of the Hand of the King running through the castle would cause chaos, and he was certain neither of them wanted attention brought to what was happening._

          _“The halls are clear, Your Grace,” Brienne’s voice carried after him._

          _Not for the first time, Davos was glad of his odd position in Winterfell. The lords and knights of the Vale looked down on him for having been a smuggler, so aside from a few scant greetings he was unimpeded. The common people of the North didn’t know what to make of him, so he was alternately ignored or treated as they would any other lord with a bow or curtsy before they went on their way. It meant he could make his way through the castle quickly and with little comment._

          _Wolkan’s study was located just below the rookery in a tower he’d never bothered to climb. He was out of breath when he reached the door decorated with the maester’s sigil, the twelve links joined in a circle rendered in what he thought was iron. He pounded on the door perhaps harder than necessary and had only just regained his breath when it opened, the tall, heavyset man staring at him in disapproval._

          _“Lady Sansa, she’s…” he trailed off, unsure of what to say. “King Jon said she needed a calmative.”_

          _Wolkan’s eyes widened in understanding before he turned back to his study and rummaged through a chest in the corner. In moments, he pulled out a vial of pale liquid before coming into the hallway and locking his door behind him. “Where is Lady Sansa?”_

          _“Lady Brienne and King Jon are seeing her to her rooms.”_

          _The maester nodded before striding past him with more assertiveness than he’d ever seen in the man._

          _Davos was left alone, unsure of what to do. He decided to head for his rooms in the Guest House. If Jon needed him, it was the most likely place to look._

          _An hour later he was pacing his room, hands held tightly behind his back when there was a heavy knock at his door._

          _When he entered Jon looked at his did when he first met him beyond the Wall; tired, defeated, but determined to continue on. His hair was down, the wild curls falling along his collar. He hadn’t seen the man’s hair down since the Wall._

          _Is she well?”_

          _Jon breathed deeply. “As well as she ever is. She’s sleeping now. Ghost is with her.”_

          _He nodded. “Good.” He couldn’t stop seeing the way she was curled in on herself, how small and young she looked. Lady Sansa was always completely in control of herself, with the air of a woman who knew her place and purpose in all things. Seeing her that way made his heart clench. “How often does…it…happen?” He’d been in Winterfell for months, traveled with them for months before that. He’d never seen her like that._

          _“Not often.” The young man looked like he’d aged a decade. “Three times, since we retook Winterfell.”_

          _“Three…” he shook his head. “Do you know what causes them?”_

          _“Ramsay.” The word was near a growl. “What Bolton did to her… I don’t know how she survived it.” His mouth twisted as if he’d tasted something rancid. “Maester Wolkan told me of some of the wounds he’d had to heal. He didn’t die slow enough.”_

          _The quiet proclamation startled him. Jon wasn’t one who gave in to revenge. He gave the men who stabbed him quick deaths, deaths fitting for traitors, but was not cruel in the execution. “He’s dead. That’s all that matters.”_

          _“Not to her,” Jon turned away. “Not to either of us. Maester Wolkan said it is a common thing when someone was…treated…as she was. That in time it may stop entirely.”_

          May. _It stabbed him like a knife in the gut._

          _“Thank you, for being there with her. For not leaving her alone.”_

          When next he saw her there was no evidence of what happened. Sansa appeared the following morning, calm and clear-eyed, giving orders and seeing to the needs of Winterfell with her usual resolve. Her only acknowledgment of what happened was the quiet ‘thank you, Ser Davos’, she said in passing. 

          Watching her now, as she smiled in the face of lords and smoothed the ruffled feathers of those not chosen to join their Council, he would have thought finding her like that a horrible dream. Jon was spending his morning as he usually did, reading and answering correspondence from the lesser lords who chose to leave Winterfell after he was declared King in the North. Lady Brienne hovered nearby, a constant shadow armored in blue. Every now and again Sansa's eyes would flit to her sworn sword as if to reassure herself she was there. 

          "Lady Sansa handles herself beautifully, doesn't she, Ser Davos?" Baelish said as he came to stand next to him. 

          Davos wanted desperately to ignore Littlefinger, but knew it would be to no avail. The quicker they finished this conversation, the quicker he could begin to discover what the other man was truly saying. "The Lady is her mother's daughter." 

          "That she is." Baelish stepped in front of him. "I wanted to congratulate you on your appointment to Hand of the King. King Jon must trust you a great deal to do so." 

          "Maybe I just happened to always be in the right place at the right time." 

          Petyr turned away. "Certainly the same couldn't be said of Stannis. You served as his Hand as well." His eyes crinkled at the corners. "Though you weren't there with him at the end." 

          Davos tightened his jaw. "I was ordered to stay at Castle Black, Lord Baelish. _I_ follow the will of my king, no matter how I may want to protest." 

          "Ah, yes.... The wills of kings." His tone became bored. "The wills of the last seven men who declared themselves king lead to their untimely deaths. And the deaths of those closest to them, in some cases." 

          The former smuggler turned fully to him. "I'm not a learned man, Lord Baelish," he tried to keep his words measured, but knew he was failing. "If you've something to say, say it plain." 

          Littlefinger looked at him in surprise. "I thought I was, Ser Davos. You've managed to elevate yourself from a simple smuggler to Hand of two kings. Few men could accomplish such a feat." 

          "From what I understand, you did much the same. From the son of a penniless lord to Master of Coin under Robert Baratheon, and now regent of the Vale." 

          Baelish's smile was sharp. "As I said, Ser: few men. Though I will admit I'm disappointed I wasn't considered for a position on King Jon's Small Council, considering my experience." 

          "Jon understands you've commitments as regent of the Vale," he felt a smug satisfaction as he said the words. "Acting as a member of his Small Council would take you too much away from them, and Lord Robyn will need you in the comings months, now that winter is here. He felt Lord Royce a more than capable addition." 

          Baelish soured a bit at his words, knowing there was no way he could contradict that logic. "I'm pleased to know the king places the needs of his lords above himself. I'm sure you'll serve our king well." He gave a small nod. "Lord Hand." 

          "Lord Baelish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading! I know I haven't been responding to your reviews lately, but I do read each and every one of them and once I get the time I will write back!
> 
> [ Qohor ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Qohor)  
> [Willas Tyrell](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Willas_Tyrell) I'm afraid Willas is not alive in this story, though I do love his character in the books and thought he deserved some mention (and its a damn shame they cut both him and [Garlan ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Garlan_Tyrell)from the show). Here he died of complications due to chronic osteomyelitis due to his injuries a few years before Game of Thrones begins.  
> [ Duram Bar Emmon](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Duram_Bar_Emmon)  
> [ House Mallery ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Mallery)  
> Dany's Golden has [ Akahl Teke ](https://i.redd.it/slb8ppbhc3e31.jpg) coloring with [ Fresian conformation ](https://www.ironspringfarm.com/stallion-horse-detail/2012-10-22/teade-392).  
> [ This ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/images/e/e5/Marc_Simonetti_Bran_theironthroneJoff.jpg) is the closest anyone has come to how Martin envisions the Iron Throne, according to Martin himself, so I thought it only fair that this is how Daenerys imagines it.
> 
> [ Cuirass ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cuirass)  
> [ Tassets](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tassets)  
> [ Chausses](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chausses)  
> [ Spaulder](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spaulder)  
> What does a Qohorik dragon look like? [ Dragon Etching ](https://www.redbubble.com/people/luckythelab/works/20948539-the-girl-with-the-dragon-tattoo-tattoo-lisbeth-salander?p=art-print)  
> What I imagine Valyrian looks like [Valyrian ](https://en.uesp.net/wiki/Lore:Falmer_Language) Basically the Falmer language from Skyrim  
> If anyone is interested, [ How to Mount a Horse in Armor and Other Chivalric Problems ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NqC_squo6X4) is an absolutely fascinating lecture on medieval armament from The Met. Its 47 minutes long, but great if you're interested in worldbuilding. Daenerys could most likely ground-mount wearing her armor, which would probably weigh no more than 15-20 pounds total, considering her size and with practice. [Techniques of Decoration on Arms and Armor ](https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/dect/hd_dect.htm) is another great armor reference.
> 
> I know Daenerys has technically made everyone in her khalasar her bloodriders, she does seem to show some favoritism to a few of them as they are always either with her or Tyrion. Since I don't know what to call them, they get the distinction of being her bloodriders here while the rest of the Dothraki are simply her khalasar.
> 
> I have nothing against Michele Clapton, but the costume choices for a lot of the female characters in Season 7-8, especially for Daenerys, were just off to me. The costuming went from being seemingly grounded in real-world from the trickle-down fashion and echoes to anachronistic high fantasy in a jarring way (compare season 1 to season 7. Heck, season 5 to season 7). Throughout the series we've seen her adapt her style to the peoples she is with and her keen use of color, yet suddenly, when she's in Westeros and should want to show how Westerosi she is, her outfits become something we've never seen before. Everything accentuates her otherness, the last thing she should be doing. I liked them, especially the coat she wears in the North, but nothing felt like Game of Thrones.  
> This is my longwinded way of saying basically nothing Danerys wears in canon will be featured in this story and I took a week to study clothing material and palette (and armor) for Danerys's entry outfit, which is why this took so long getting out. I know, excuses, excuses.
> 
> Next Chapter: Back to Winterfell


	10. Ripples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys's proclamations are received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: This chapter was supposed to be posted two weeks ago.  
> Other Me: The Wintefell section is being problematic... as usual.  
> Me: Posted. Two. Weeks. Ago.  
> Other Me: We could move the Winterfell section and post what we have.  
> Me: -_-  
> Other Me: Do you really what to post a thirty-page chapter?  
> Me: Screw it, we'll break it up, then.

          Winter was well and truly here, the High Septon mused as he looked out over the Honeywine. 

          The view from his study, tucked away in the northwest tower of the Starry Sept, was breathtaking. The multi-colored, tiled domes of the shrines to the Maiden, Mother, and Crone rose beneath him, the moonflower mosaics that wrapped around their bases identifying each. Loosely furled buds, tender leaves, and vines decorated the Maiden’s dome, wrought in delicate ceramics so small they appeared painted, even from his distance. The blooming flowers, pale and proud, of the Mother’s dome were lush amid full brilliant foliage made from crushed tourmaline and opal. 

          For all the beauty of the domes for the Maiden and Mother, the brown, shriveled twigs that graced that of the Crone were perhaps his favorite. Though the colors were darker and starker, the details were astonishing and subtle. Delicate black tiles, some no wider than a finger’s width mimicked vines gnarled with age. Unlike its neighboring domes, there was variation in the height of its tiles that emphasized their weathered appearance. Invisible from the ground, they gave an illusion of depth and age. At the heart of each lantern-like seedpod were flecks of gold that reflected the sunlight, a reminder of the Crone’s wisdom. 

          Beyond the domes, the great gardens that took up half the island were dormant. A few of the hardier plants still thrived, if only just, and many of the trees were bare apart from the few ironwoods and evergreens. The weather in recent weeks was colder than anything he could remember, cold enough that the brothers and sisters were out in force most days making sure the more delicate plants survived. Whole sections were covered with swaths of burlap in an attempt to protect them from the frost, while patches of gorse and what he believed were snowdrops stayed steadfastly green, as the cold gave them no trouble. A few brothers and sisters even took it upon themselves to make cuttings and dig up specimens, lest they be lost to the cold. He could only imagine the havoc the unprecedented weather was playing at the great gardens of the Citadel. 

          And winter was just beginning. 

          Across the Honeywine, steam and smoke rose from Oldtown, all but obscuring the city as its residents attempted to stave off the unusual cold. Or perhaps not unusual. After all, the past summer was the longest in centuries, and common knowledge held that a long, hard winter followed a long and bountiful summer. He bowed his head in prayer for the faithful throughout the kingdoms; for the Father to shelter them and the Mother to give them succor. He sent another, less fervent prayer for the godless men of the North. Heathens or not, no one should freeze to death or suffer starvation. 

          With a final supplication, the High Septon turned back to the business at hand. 

          The study of the High Septon was lavishly decorated, though not by him. The wealth of ages could be found on in its marble walls: golden icons of the Seven That Are One given as gifts by the faithful stood beside hangings of silk and velvet from across the Narrows Sea depicting the miracles performed by High Septons of old. Richly appointed furniture and bejeweled chests all spoke of the favor the gods showered on their servants. The decadence took some getting used to when he was first elected to his position after the death of the previous High Holiness in King’s Landing. Though he’d never been a begging brother, the overt signs of wealth when so many starved was unsettling but unavoidable. It was not his place to question how the gods rewarded their children. 

          The large desk of his study, carved from a giant weirwood millennia ago, was covered in letters from all over the realm. Many were from brothers and sisters of the Faith, asking for his help in entreating the lords for help against bandits attacking the septries. Others were from the lords themselves, requesting septas for their children’s education or asking for guidance through these uncertain times. A few were reports from members placed in such houses: news of births or deaths, of sins they felt it necessary for the Faith to have knowledge of, and of other potential troubles. He gave each letter the thoughtful attention it deserved, weighing each issue with care. The greatest need was in the Riverlands, where hundreds of brothers and sisters were recalled to the Starry Sept or the capital during the War of Five Kings for their own protection. 

          Some took refuge in the castles of the nobility, relying on stout wall and arms to keep them safe. What few managed to make it to safety reported atrocities perpetrated by all sides of the conflict. Lannister, Stark, Baratheon, Tully, the names of the men they followed did not matter. Rape, murder, torture, these were the prices war leveled on all who found themselves caught in its whirlwind. With the wars over, the cold weather seemed to cool the blood of every house left standing, and the kingdoms were quiet. It was the calm before the storm, he feared, though what would break over them next he could not say. 

          The wars had another effect. There were those in the Order who wished to reestablish the Faith Militant to protect the faithful. Not the cudgel bearing brigands employed by the man who called himself the High Sparrow, but the Swords and Stars of old. He was staunchly against it. The true Faith Militant was disbanded over two hundred years ago. There were none among them who could lead men of war even if there were men and women willing to give up their lands and titles and serve the Faith, and he feared to allow the Poor Fellows to establish themselves in Oldtown would result in the same chaos they caused in King’s Landing. From what few reports came from the capital, the High Sparrow’s men were little more than savages, killing and maiming, perverting the words of the Seven-Pointed Star to their own ends. They lacked the Father’s forbearance, the Crone’s wisdom, or the Mother’s mercy, and instead buried themselves in the Stranger’s inscrutable judgment. 

          _Not that Lord Hightower would allow such a thing in the first place,_ he thought. No, the militarization of the Faith destroyed it in King’s Landing. He would not allow the same to happen in Oldtown. 

          “High Septon?” 

          The gentle voice of Septon Osmond interrupted his thoughts. “Enter.” 

          Septon Osmond was a rarity: A Dornishman who gave up his life of depravity and devoted himself to the Faith. Tall and thin to the point of emaciation, with skin the color of teak and eyes like polished obsidian, he stood apart from the rest of the faithful. Despite his forbidding looks, he was painfully soft-spoken and careful in his ways. For over twenty years the man served as secretary to the septons that oversaw the Starry Sept, performing his duties without fail. Some of his brethren called for him to replace Osmond once he was elected to the role of High Septon, but he would not, not until the man gave him a reason to. 

          Osmond was so tall he would have had to duck to get through the door if his head weren’t already in that position. His robes were tinged with dirt at the knee, a sign he was out in the garden again, tending to his plants the way a father tended his children. “A missive came from the Red Keep, High Septon,” he said. 

          The High Septon frowned. What orders was Cersei attempting to give the Faith now? No matter what she threatened, he would not support her claim to the Iron Throne. She allowed a fanatic free rein in the capital, broke every covenant of the Faith, and then destroyed the Sept of Baelor before having a disgraced maester crown her queen. By all the laws of gods and men, the crown should have passed to the closest male Baratheon cousin who could be found or failing that Shireen Baratheon, if the girl still lived. When he attempted to send true septons and septas back to the capital she had them flogged and run out. 

          “What threats is the Lannister woman making now?” he sighed, knowing Osmond would not have opened the missive. He was too honest for that. 

          When there was no response, he gave his secretary a more careful examination. The man was standing just inside the study with wide eyes, and the hand holding out the scroll trembled slightly. Osmond might be careful, but he was never nervous. He reached for the missive and paused. It was not sealed red wax impressed with a lion, the way communications from the Crown were sealed since Tommen’s death. This wax was black. When he took the letter in hand, he almost dropped it. Pressed into the wax was a seal he never thought he would see. A dragon, its great head split into three. 

          “The Red Keep, you say?” 

          Osmond nodded. “I checked the bird myself. It had the proper notches.” 

          The High Septon broke the seal and read the scroll. Then read it again. He swallowed and read it a third time as his stomach curled. 

          “High Septon?” 

          He jerked his eyes up. Osmond watched him, concern and confusion vying for dominance in his sharp features. 

          Instead of answering his brother’s silent question the High Septon went to his desk and pulled out parchment and quill. He sat for a moment, gathering his scattered thoughts, before writing out a simple, direct proclamation. 

          _The Faith hereby renounces Cersei Lannister as a kinslayer, murderer, and usurper and affirms Daenerys Targaryen of House Targaryen as the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms._

          _High Septon of the Faith and Most Devout_

          He stared at the words as they dried before handing it off to Osmond. “See that to the scribes. A copy is to go to every lord for which we have a raven.” He worried the signet ring on his middle finger. “Send someone to Lord Hightower as well and see if he’s had any word from King’s Landing.” 

          His secretary glanced over the words and his eyes widened comically. “Da-” he caught himself before he needed correcting. A High Septon gave up his name once he was elected to the Most High. “High Septon… the Dragon Queen… she’s here? Truly?” 

          “Here and taken King’s Landing.” 

          There was nothing threatening in the tone of the letter, nothing that could justify the sinking dread settling in his stomach. It was surprisingly cordial: _For three hundred years House Targaryen and the Faith stood together, leading the people of the Seven Kingdoms. It is my dearest wish that this tradition continues. Though I have taken King’s Landing, and many have declared for me I feel my ascension will not be complete until like Aegon before me, I have been anointed by the Faith._ _I’ve learned the true Faith has been missing from the capital for years. I invite you to return to King’s Landing with as many septons and septas as you feel are needed to administer to your flock, as we begin bringing order back to the Seven Kingdoms._

          The sound of hurried footsteps brought the High Septon from his musings. Osmond was near sprinting, his sandals clacking on the wooden floor in his haste. It was the fastest he could remember seeing the man move in years. 

          The High Septon breathed and tried to focus his thoughts. Cersei Lannister was deposed, whether dead or a prisoner was unclear, but she was no longer ruling. Whatever armies the Targaryen used to take the capital were the power on the continent now. The septon at Highgarden wrote months ago that Lady Olenna traveled to Meereen to treat with the woman, and the rumors of her armies and atrocities in Essos were legion. If the two had joined… 

          Within hours news of the fall of King’s Landing would spread throughout the Starry Sept, and within days Oldtown would be afire with it. If Daenerys Targaryen had written to him, he was sure she’d written to the Great Houses, perhaps the Citadel as well. 

* * *

          Greyson Thayne stared out at Shipbreaker Bay from the Lord’s Solar of Storm’s End, something that had become a habit of his. Twilight was his favorite time if he had to choose one. The time when the day’s work was done or nearly so, the bustle of everyday life slowing as the sun faded from view. It was the time when darkness gathered on the horizon, turning the churning waters of the bay from dark blue to black. Waves pounded against the cliffs below the keep, though the sound was muted. On the walls below, they could be a whisper or the crack of thunder depending on the tide but from his height, it was easy to forget their power. 

          Six castles stood on Durran’s Point over the millennia, and six castles crumbled under the winds and rain that drove inland off the bay. Only Storm’s End was able to weather the elements. The first time Greyson saw the seat of House Baratheon he was little more than a boy, newly squired and eager to meet his liege. It was something out of a bard’s tale, though even those could not do it justice. The legends spoke of the castle being designed by Bran the Builder when he was still a boy before the Wall was raised or a single stone laid for Winterfell’s foundations. Looking at the structure he could believe the wives tales of the Children, giants, and spells, for how else could such a structure be raised if not by magic? 

          The curtain wall was forty feet thick at its thinnest, eighty for the side that faced the sea and rose sixty feet, the stones fitted together so perfectly they were near smooth as glass. The drum tower soared over the massive walls, so high the fastest way to the king’s chambers was by the lift in the center of the tower, and so large that there were few true outbuildings, only the kitchens, stables, and forge. Barracks, granaries, and armory were situated on the lowest levels. The massive yard was once empty he was told, and itself stood thirty feet over the land outside. Over the centuries the town that once spread outside the castle’s walls moved inside; the houses and other buildings a layer of three concentric circles that abutted an inner wall thirty feet high. 

          For over a year now, Storm’s End was all but isolated from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. When Stannis was defeated on the Blackwater Joffrey wasted no time in sweeping up the fractured banners of the Stormlands and declaring Tommen Lord of Storm’s End instead of Prince of Dragonstone. It was only good fortune and swift thinking on Stannis’s part that kept the crown from taking his ancestral home. The well-garrisoned keep could repel any enemy force, and Greyson made certain that only those fiercely loyal to their king were returned to the mainland to hold it. Two hundred knights and men-at-arms arrived at the castle in the dead of night, floated through the sea passage that led beneath the keep to avoid any land forces. They prepared themselves well, but it seemed their preparations were for naught. The boy-king had more important matters to see to it seemed, for other than ravens threatening torture on those who defied his order to swear fealty, no armies came to try to pry them out. Words on a page did no one harm, and as the weeks passed and word of Joffrey’s barbary spread southward, Thayne was glad he’d chosen to declare for Stannis instead of the new king. Bastard or not, the boy was mad. 

          Thayne may have been unsure of the truth, but he knew Stannis. Knew the man’s devotion to his duty. If he said Cersei’s children were not Robert’s then it must be true. Stannis Baratheon was many things, but a usurper was not one of them. He would have seen his brother’s blood on the throne as was their right and stood as their shield against any who would try to take it. He would have made sure of the truth before moving against them. His belief was furthered by the fact that the royal children looked nothing like Robert or his brothers. They were blonde instead of dark, with the sharp features, slender build, and green eyes of their mother. Even their hair showed no variation. Every strand could have come from Cersei’s head. 

          Their father’s head. 

          That Stannis’s assertion was backed by the word of Ned Stark was even more telling. Eddard Stark was a man of such honor that he took his bastard into his own castle and raised the boy for all to see, instead of hiding him away like any other lord. He was Robert’s Hand and his dearest friend, his daughter poised to be queen of the Seven Kingdoms. He stood to gain nothing by declaring Cersei’s children bastards, which why Greyson did not believe for a moment that Stark’s confession at Baelor was genuine. The crown had the man’s daughters, and though he wasn’t a father Greyson knew there was little he wouldn’t do to save his siblings. Still, it wasn’t enough, and Cersei’s bastard had him executed with his own sword. Whatever secrets or proof he had died with him. 

          When Joffrey was murdered at his wedding and Tommen declared king another raven arrived, carrying a letter written and signed by Tommen himself judging from the roundness of the hand, requesting that they lay down their arms and swear fealty to their king. The wars were over, and prolonging hostilities as winter set in was foolish at best. It promised that no man inside Storm’s End would be punished for refusing his brother, and all lands and titles would be returned, but still, Greyson refused. No army had taken Storm’s End, and this wasn’t Robert’s Rebellion: they were fully provisioned after the longest summer anyone could remember. It would take years to starve them out. 

          News of Stannis’s death in the North rocked him to his core. The message came second-hand from Dragonstone, written by Ser Donnar in a shaky hand. Their king, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms, was gone. Dead thousands of miles from the throne that was his birthright on the word of a red witch. He should have been there in the mud and snow with his king at the end. Instead, he was in the Stormlands, holding his king’s ancestral home against his enemies, sleeping on a feather bed and being attended by servants. Worse was what came after he revealed the fate of their king. The denials and blame. The simmering resentment that festered until it broke open like an infected wound. 

          _“I’ll not sit and rot in his keep, not when I can return home.” Arnulf Jamsen punched the table he sat at. “The war is over! Our king is dead, and you would have us join him!”_

          _The Round Hall was filled with what remained of the knights and squires under his command. Many of the long tables that normally lined the hall were stacked at the sides, so the center of the room remained clear. Servants moved about the room carrying pitcher+-s of honeyed water and lemonsweet. He ordered no wine be served after yesterday’s words turned so heated two men ended rolling on the floor like children. Today his men wore their armor and swords instead of tunics and trousers, all the more reason to abstain. “House Morrigen remains loyal to Stannis Baratheon,” Greyson informed him._

          _It was the third day he’d presided over such a meeting, and his patience was wearing thinner by the hour. Of the two hundred knights he oversaw at Storm’s End, 140 were left. News of Stannis’s death at the hands of the Boltons was a blow to many of his men. So far 60 asked leave to return to their homes, and he would not keep them. A single disloyal man could destroy them all, and he was glad to see their backs._

          _“Then Lester is a fool!”_

          _Another knight wearing the black crow of House Morrigen grabbed Ser Arnulf and dragged him away, whispering fiercely. Arnulf threw his hands off and started forward until he was standing in the center of the room. “Stannis is dead. Renly is dead. Princess Shireen is dead! Tommen may be Robert’s; the boy is certainly thick enough.”_

          _His words sent an uneasy chuckle through the Round Hall._

          _Greyson forced himself to calm. “Lord Lester has written and reaffirmed his allegiance to Storm’s End and our cause. His king’s cause.” He tapped the missive that started it all. “You would trust the word of a Lannister that you are safe? A Lannister always pays his debts, Ser Arnulf, and you have spent the better part of four years in open rebellion.”_

          _Arnulf paled before he went ruddy. “We followed our liege,” he countered. “I swore my sword to House Baratheon. So long as Stannis fought, I followed. Now the only blood left of House Baratheon sits the Iron Throne.” He turned to the gathered men. “Joffrey was an abomination as mad as any Targaryen. He skinned the poor deer Renly gave to Tommen as his nameday gift and ordered babes murdered in the streets, But Tommen? The boy is said to be gentle and kind, and I knew no lord kinder that Lord Robert.”_

          _“How can we be sure any of her get are Robert’s?” Lord Lucos asked. It was the first time Greyson could remember the young man speaking. He was surprised his voice didn’t crack his face was so youthful. “Cersei cuckolded her husband, and Joffrey is the obvious result. But what of those less so? Tommen could very well be her brother’s. We’ve no way of knowing.” He straightened to his full height. “We should send to the Vale for Mya Stone.”_

          _“You would make a bastard our queen?” Ser Theo, a knight of House Bolling, spat the words._

          _“Better a bastard we know carries Baratheon blood than a Lannister,” Ser Rolland Storm replied without standing, his voice deadly quiet. The big man sat like a mountain at his table, thick shoulders straining his tabard. “Robert acknowledged Mya from the moment she was born, and no one has ever countered his claim.”_

          _“Do we know what the girl looks like?” Lord Musgood asked._

          _“Dark-haired and blue-eyed,” an older knight in Baratheon colors answered. “She’s tall, too. Wide-faced, but pretty. She looks more like Robert than any of his so-called trueborn children.”_

          _A look of triumph passed over Lord Lucas and was echoed in Ser Rolland’s craggy face. “The girl was raised well in the house of Lord Royce, can any of you deny it?”_

          _Grumbles met his words and more men rose to their feet. “I’ll not bend the knee to a bastard!” shouted a knight wearing the lips and skulls of Lonmouth on his tabard._

          _“Perhaps Ser Arnulf is right,” Ser Walther Brownhill, ever the conciliator, interjected. “If our choices are to be one bastard or another, better the one who sits the Iron Throne. At the very least, those men who wish to return home should be allowed to do so.”_

          _Greyson bristled. “I’ve made no move to keep those who wished to leave.” After news reached them of Stannis’s death, what few Connington men remained protested staying. “ Connington’s men were allowed safe passage, as I promised.”_

          _“And killed once out of our sight?” He could not see the questioner._

          _He stood. “I am true to my word. I swore to serve Stannis Baratheon, and here I sit. I swore to hold Storm’s End against his enemies, including the crown, and it has not fallen. I swore safe passage to those who wished to return home, and it has been given. My honor is not in question here, but there are many in this room that should be.”_

          _“So, we’re oathbreakers now, is that it?”_

          It started as a scrape and shout at the back of the room, the sound of a body hitting the floor as men moved away from the chaos and in moments engulfed the entire room. The fight was swift and brutal. In the end, fifty knights, including the sons from lesser houses, were dead, Ser Arnulf among them. Their number half of what Stannis sent to hold Storm’s End in a matter of moments. Greyson ordered the corpses stripped of their arms and the bodies burned. What little remained was thrown into the sea. Those who remained all swore to one thing: 

          They would not kneel to a Lannister bastard. 

          Nor were they the only ones. The rumors of House Stark once again controlling Winterfell were only just trickling through the kingdoms. It was said Stark’s bastard was named King in the North after abandoning the Night’s Watch, retaking Winterfell with the wildlings and giants he rallied to his cause and killing Ramsay Bolton. It sounded more like a children’s tale than truth, but if Snow did kill Ramsay then he’d avenged Stannis. Thayne’s men tried to get him to take the mantle of Storm King once the tale became known, but he refused. He held no Durrandon or Baratheon blood, nor did he consider himself the stuff of kings. He would hold Storm’s End, nothing more or less than his duty. 

          A gust of wind blew up the walls, strong enough to push him back from his window and return him to the present. In the fading light, Greyson could just make out Broad Arch, the dark brown stone rising from the sea of surrounding green like a crag. Their nearest neighbors, and staunch supporters of Tommen Baratheon. Any missives sent to the Staedmons or to Stone’s Throw, the village that it sheltered, went unanswered. He long since stopped sending riders, not after the bodies of the first three were returned slung across their horses. 

          There were still ravens. Some houses sworn to House Baratheon still believed in their cause, but they were careful of their allegiance. Lady Musgood wrote perhaps once a month; short missives that spoke of little beyond his sister and how she fared. The ravens from Poddingfield were rarer still once word of Lord Robin dying reached them. Lady Nira promised to uphold her brother’s oath to only serve House Baratheon and that his brothers would be safe inside her walls, but there was little in the way of communication after that. Neither house was willing to send men to relieve his small garrison, afraid of Lannister retribution, especially now that Cersei called herself queen and he did not blame them. Lady Musgood sent news of the retaking of Riverrun; how Edmure Tully ordered the gates opened, and how every man loyal to House Tully was slaughtered when they were. 

          "Lord Greyson, the maester wants a word. He says a raven 's come from King’s Landing.” 

          _Dark wings, dark words._ Never had he believed adage more than in the last year. 

          Maester Jurne trundled into the study, his jowls near quivering, arm outstretched. Thayne took the small scroll, uncaring of the bit of wax that sealed it. Ravens from the capital were either admonishments to lay down their arms and rejoin the kingdoms peaceably or threats of what would happen if they persisted. Many of the men under his command had already lost what lands they once had on order from the queen’s oldest bastard. If Cersei thought she could crack Storm’s End she was welcome to it. More than one army was broken on its thick walls, and the cold weather would not be pleasant. They even had snow overnight, though it melted with the first rays of the sun. 

          _To all Lords and Ladies of Westeros,_

          _Let it be known that Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, Stormborn, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, has deposed the pretender Cersei Lannister and reclaimed the Iron Throne and all rights and titles therein. She invites all true and loyal members of the nobility to the Red Keep to reaffirm their allegiance to House Targaryen._

          _Tyrion Lannister_

          _Hand of the Queen_

          As far as he knew, the last Targaryens were somewhere across the Narrows Sea, lost in Essos. There were rumors that Viserys died at the hands of a Dothraki, but that was the last word he had of them until this. “Are we sure this is genuine and not a Lannister ploy?” How else would a Lannister find themselves second to a Targaryen after what Tywin did? 

          “The bird had royal markings, my lord. If it is faked, it was well done.” 

          It was too fantastic to be believed. A Targaryen was once again in Westeros and on the Iron Throne. Robert Baratheon was spinning in his grave. “How would she have taken the capital? King’s Landing could withstand a siege for months, even years,” Thayne mused. 

          “Yes, my Lord,” Jurne swallowed. “Unless the rumors are true.” 

          Dragons. 

          “The last dragons died out over a hundred years ago.” It was common knowledge. The Targaryens were the last to control the great beasts, and in the end the once terrifying creatures were little larger than cats, sickly and stunted. 

          “The Citadel has taken great interest in the Targaryen girl since she sacked Astapor. She could not have taken the city that trained Unsullied without them. She lays claim to all of Slaver’s Bay. No single force could have managed such.” 

          A Targaryen with dragons sat on the Iron Throne and a King of Winter ruled in the North. Greyson fought the mad urge to laugh. They might as well be living in a song. 

          “What will you do, my lord?” Jurne’s washed his thin hands repeatedly. How such a nervous man managed to become a maester Thayne would never know. 

          “I will send two men to King’s Landing to learn the truth.” They would have to leave under cover of darkness. If it was a Lannister ploy, no doubt there were soldiers on the roads waiting for any who left the castle. “Once we know for certain I will go to the capital myself.” He was not a king, but House Thayne stood with Orys Baratheon during the conquest. If Daenerys Targaryen had returned to Westeros and claimed the throne of her ancestors, then she was the rightful queen. 

          Once his men reported back that it wasn't a Lannister ploy he would travel to the capital and learn the mind of this new queen. His thoughts turned to Mya Stone in the Vale. His inquiries to the Gates of the Moon about the girl went unanswered for the most part. He hoped to request she be legitimized as Mya Baratheon, so that she could take her rightful place as her father’s heir. Orys Baratheon himself was rumored to be a bastard. It would be fitting in a way, for another bastard to continue his line. 

* * *

          Something changed. 

          Euron stared out over the Broken Arm. Waves shattered against the tumbled remains of mountains that shot up from the surf like so many sharp, hungry teeth. He turned to the north, where Grey Gallows stood silent and still. His men took the small keep there weeks ago, slaughtering the soldiers inside and taking the women as salt wives, what few there were. He waited for the men there to signal that the convoy was approaching, but as the days passed the lighthouse remained dark. 

          It shouldn’t be this way. 

          Euron lifted a golden flask, etched with a single eye with a ruby for its pupil. A gift from one of the men under his command, given years ago. Before he had the man’s eyes torn from his head and what was left dragged behind the Silence for the sharks. He flicked his wrist and set the contents sloshing. The shade of the evening called to him, lovelier than any siren, but he refused to give in. The blue had all but faded from his lips when he first sailed into King’s Landing, but the memory of his vision remained. 

          There should have been ships on the horizon. Dozens… near fifty, carrying his prey and his niece. Their sails and hulls were alight in the night, their men screaming as they were slaughtered, the smell of offal and fear heavy on the salt air. His muscles tensed as he felt his sword cut through an Ironborn, spilling the traitor’s guts in a hot stream onto the wood beneath them before continuing to the women. Women he would have preferred to keep as his own, well-muscled and beautiful as they were, but did not. He would have enjoyed breaking them, took pride in it as a mainlander took pride in breaking horses, but it wasn’t to be. Some beasts were as deadly as they were beautiful, and he knew better than to fall for such traps. 

          Fast on the fighting came different cries. Shouts of joy and happiness as he drove his two prizes through the streets of the capital like fine fillies to market. The look on the queen’s face when he gave her what he knew she wanted. The feel of her thighs around his waist, and his disappointment that her hair was too short to grip properly as he rode her from behind. 

          He blinked, and the vision broke apart in the fading sunlight. 

          It was the same vision he had since his niece and nephew fled Lordsport. The one that drove him to King’s Landing and Cersei Lannister. He would be king, not just of the Iron Islands, but of Westeros. He dreamed of sitting on the Iron Throne and fucking Cersei on it, listening to her mewls as he took her hard and fast. Not a true vision sent by the shade, he knew, but something he would see come to pass. His hand caressed the haft of his ax. It had to happen in order. First the ships, then his niece, then the queen. 

          Yara. Cersei might give him princes, but Yara…Yara would give him _kings._ He saw the driftwood crown floating over her head and knew what it meant. He would keep her on Pyke until he had the lion under control, perhaps on the Silence. He imagined breaking her to his will would be a challenge, but once it was done he would have Yara brought to the Red Keep. He knew his niece loved women as well as men, and Cersei was a beautiful woman. Just the thought of watching those golden thighs clutch at his niece’s head was enough to make his cock stir. 

          A quick inhale forced Euron back to the now. His son stood behind him, wooly haired, his skin somewhere between his own sun-browned and the dark hue of his mother’s. 

          “No sign,” the boy said, his voice little above a whisper. Euron’s eyes went to his son’s neck, where a thick scar traced his skin like a lover. He hadn’t taken his tongue, but there were other ways to ensure he had the quiet he needed. 

          Euron turned and the boy’s feet slapped against the deck as he retreated. 

          The flask in his hand vibrated, the siren inside growing louder, more insistent. Her song ever sweeter. 

          _A taste,_ he told himself as he unscrewed the top. _A taste, nothing more than that._

          The blue liquid ran like old blood over his tongue, thick and clotted. It tasted of blood, and the salt of the sea and the salt of Falia’s cunt. The bittersweet crack of unripe melon and the sweetness of summer wine. He ripped the flask away from his mouth with a groan and capped it quickly, lest the scent drive him to another drink. Euron blinked as the sea in front of him wavered, the golden sunlight fracturing again and again until it filled his vision. Between one breath and the next, a thousand years, it cleared. 

          He was on Silence, her sails snapping in the warm air. The sea was empty, his ships vanished into the ether. The deck was just as empty, save for a long stone bier bearing a body draped in the sheerest of cloth. He could make out well-formed breasts and hips beneath the thin material. A woman then. One of his, or soon to be he could not tell, as the cloth was just thick enough to obscure her features. 

          A caw echoed around him, shook in his chest and set his bones to shuddering. The crow sat on the yardarm, staring down at him, great eyes unblinking. _Fly or die,_ he could still remember that deep voice, tormenting his mind while his body was lashed to the mast. When he thought he would split in two for the visions that tore at him. _Fly or die._

          “I learned to fly,” he yelled, laughter edging his voice, roughened from the shade. Oh, how he’d learned. 

          The crow took flight, wheeling into the sky with another cry. 

          His gaze followed it until the crow vanished. The sun flamed brightly overhead. Something moved there, in the sunlight, hiding in the glare. As he watched the shape solidified, became a bird, then something larger, darting from the cloudless sky like an arrow falling from the heavens. Perhaps a hundred feet away it slowed, the shape expanding with a snap of leather. Wings, black as waves at midnight, beat at him, tumbling his rigging to the sea. Death hovered before him as the great mouth opened, its throat filled with fire, and he laughed as he was engulfed in flame. 

          When Euron came back to himself he was on his back, laughing as tears trickled from his eyes. The sun had set, and the sky above him was the vibrant pink and clear purple of twilight. His crew went about their duties without comment, skirting well away. The blue eye of the Ice Dragon winked down at him in the purple gloom, the points of its teeth flashing fire. His fingers gripped his flask, clenched to the point of numbness, the ruby cutting into his palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I know I promised Winterfell, but I've had problems getting everything where I want it so it will be the next chapter, I promise. And a long chapter (roughly 20 or so pages).
> 
> Greyson Thayne is not my invention. He is the creation of TheDeviantLord. I hope I did him justice.
> 
> [ The Honeywine](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Honeywine)  
> [ The Starry Sept. ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Starry_Sept) I imagine the sept looks like a slightly altered version of [ the Selimiye Mosque](https://aparthistorygo.files.wordpress.com/2017/10/resized_90eb1-5f57selimiye.jpg).  
> [ High Septon ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/High_Septon)  
> [ Faith Militant ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Faith_Militant)  
> [ Oldtown ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Oldtown)  
> [ House Hightower ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Hightower)  
> [ Shipbreaker Bay ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Shipbreaker_Bay)  
> [ Durran's Point ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Durran%27s_Point)  
> [ Storm's End ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Storm%27s_End)  
> [ Bran the Builder ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Brandon_Stark_\(Builder\))  
> [ House Morrigen ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Morrigen)  
> [ Lord Lucos ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Lucos_Chyttering)  
> [ House Bolling ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Bolling)  
> [ Ser Rolland Storm ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Rolland_Storm)  
> [ House Musgood ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Musgood)  
> [ Mya Stone ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Mya_Stone)  
> [ House Lonmouth ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Lonmouth)[ House Connington ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Connington)  
> [ House Durrandon ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Durrandon)  
> [ House Staedmon ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Staedmon)  
> [ Shade of the Evening ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Shade_of_the_evening)
> 
> [ Euron Greyjoy ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Euron_Greyjoy) is so much more terrifying in the books. Imagine a crazy pirate who basically wants to become a Cthullu like god and is rumored to practice dark magic. The man sailed into [ Valyria ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Valyria) and _came back_.  
> [ Falia Flowers ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Falia_Flowers)  
> [ Ice Dragon ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Ice_Dragon_\(constellation\))


	11. Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life continues at Winterfell. Jon, Sansa, and Davos begin to formalize how the North will be ruled. Ser Jorah recovers from his illness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> This chapter contains a scene with a character experiencing a panic attack. If that is concerning to you, please skip the section in Davos's POV that is italicized.
> 
> 12/12/19 - Section added

          The rumor was so ridiculous she almost laughed the first time she heard it. 

          “Me… and Jon?” she asked Nell. 

          The day was just starting to wane when the grey-haired woman slunk into her small office, face pale and lips thin, asking to speak with her. She was exhausted. Her duties as official Master of Coin for the North required more than a general understanding of the accounts for Winterfell. She'd spent most of the morning with Ser Davos, going over the taxes for the North going back to the height of summer and into the heart of the last winter trying to set a schedule for the lords and to make necessary adjustments to account for their current circumstances. 

          Now, this newest difficulty was dropped in her lap when all she wanted to do was curl into her furs and sleep. It wasn’t the first time a servant chose to come to her directly. In fact, she encouraged it and made sure everyone knew her door was always open if they had a concern. Servants were the eyes and ears of Winterfell, eyes and ears she needed if she was to keep a firm grip on their home. 

          The chambermaid ducked her head. “One o’ the guards said they saw you comin’ from his chambers late, m’lady. That you was half-dressed, what with your belts in your hand.” 

          Half-dressed. She thought back. It must have been the night he returned from Torrhen’s Square. Somehow not wearing the heavy leather belt that wrapped around her torso and three buttons undone at her neck meant she was half-dressed. “What other rumors are there about us?” 

          The woman looked up. “None! None m’lady. It’s just that Cora was talking to Daris this morning. Said she heard it from a guard. Gwenna gave both a good knock on the ear for saying such filth. Dismissed them on the spot.” 

          Both Nell and Gwenna worked in Winterfell under Ramsay’s rule, though both were too old for his particular tastes. She would have to find a way to reward the head cook for her loyalty. Sansa reached into her desk and pulled out two copper pennies. “My thanks, Nell.” 

          It wasn’t difficult to hunt down the source of the rumor. There were three guards on duty the night Jon returned. Only three men who would have seen her leaving his quarters in such a state. 

          When she spoke to Jon about it, he reacted just as she thought he would. 

          “I’ll see them flogged.” Jon’s eyes were dark, almost black when he growled out the words, his hand tightly fisted. 

          “For a rumor?” she challenged. 

          He glared at her a moment before his eyes softened. “They shouldn’t speak of you like that. Of us like that.” His mouth twisted in disgust. “You’re my sister.” 

          _Half-sister,_ Littlefinger’s words echoed in her mind. 

          “It could just be gossip.” The gods knew there was little else to do at the moment. After all the activity in the months since taking Winterfell, they were in a strange lull. Davos called it a calm before a storm when the sea was smooth as glass, but clouds threatened far on the horizon. “But if it isn’t? If there is someone behind it… better to know the source before taking action.” She didn’t say who she thought was behind it, but she may as well have. 

          “Littlefinger.” He almost spat the name. “What reason would he have to spread such lies?” 

          Many. Questioning the nature of their relationship could be a ploy to force Jon to consider another marriage for her. It could be to make Jon out to be the villain: the bastard son who abandoned the Night's Watch to take everything that rightly belonged to Ned Stark’s trueborn daughter and force her into his bed. “Or it could be Lord Glover. Or Lady Dustin. Or Cersei." The last was the most troubling possibility. "She may not be able to strike at us with weapons, but she could work to undermine your rule.” Or make them weaken themselves by forcing distance between them for propriety’s sake. “We’ve no way of knowing unless we track it to its source.” 

          “And if it was just a man too loose with his tongue?” 

          Sansa turned to her brother’s Hand. “What do you think our King should do, Ser Davos? You knew King Stannis better than anyone, and I’m sure he dealt with rumors all the time. What would he have done?” 

          The former smuggler looked to Jon before turning to her. “For spreading such a rumor? Stannis would have their tongues.” 

          She didn’t like the glint in Jon’s eye at that. As if he were actually considering such a punishment. 

          “Years ago, the Baratheon’s had a jester of sorts,” Davos continued. “Patchface. Stannis’s father brought him from Volantis to be his fool. The boy did magic and the like, told riddles, tumbled about. Poor boy near drowned in the wreck that claimed Lord and Lady Baratheon and washed up days later. Fishermen what found him thought he was dead at first. Maester Cressen said the drowning stole his mind, made him a halfwit. He’d been with Renly at Storm’s End until Renly grew tired of him. Stannis had him brought to Dragonstone.” 

          Jon frowned. “I wouldn’t have thought Stannis the type to keep a fool.” 

          “Neither did I, until I learned what happened to him. I imagine Stannis thought he was doing right by the man. Gods know he would have starved or frozen to death if he’d been left on his own. Didn’t do much but speak in riddles and caper about from what I remember. Three months later Lady Sylese was with child.” 

          Davos’s expression grew soft. “Patchface dotted on Shireen from the moment she was born. Sang to her, danced with her. There were times when his strange songs were the only thing that could make her stop crying. Whatever happened when he drowned, that little girl gave him peace. Stannis didn’t mind it. Then one day he heard a rumor. Some fool claiming that Shireen was Patchface’s bastard when he was deep in his cups. Stannis found the one responsible and had him flogged before taking his tongue and debasing him.” 

          Sansa swallowed. She remembered Ser Ilyn, with his strange grunts and glaring eyes. “What happened to Patchface?” 

          “A week after Shireen began showing signs of greyscale the skin on his hand started turning. One of the guards said they saw him walk into the sea. That’s the last anyone heard of him.” 

          “I think the men would prefer a flogging and be banned from Winterfell to having their tongues removed,” Jon’s voice was hard. 

          Sansa stood her ground. “By now word has spread that Cora and Darin were dismissed. That should be enough to curb anymore talk of us.” The winter would be the harshest in memory, that much all the maesters of the northern houses agreed on. To be turned out of the guaranteed food and safety of the castle... 

          “And if it doesn’t?” Jon pressed. 

          “Then we’ll know there is someone behind it giving it life. Give me time to discover the truth of it. If it dies, simple banishment.” 

          “And if someone is driving it?” 

          “Then that someone is playing a dangerous game.” She gave the men a hard look. “One we will win.” 

  

* * *

          Genna Frey wore black for the first time since her brother’s death. 

          After all, her husband’s family had undergone a terrible injustice: Two dozen Frey men killed by a nameless assassin at what was supposed to be a feast in their honor. When Emmon told her of the calamity that befell the males of his line she was shocked, then mildly amused as he raged. Walder Frey did much the same to the Young Wolf and his men and it was called justice for the slight to their family’s honor. Now that the gesture was repeated it was unseemly, an abomination that should be avenged. She felt the way she was sure most of Westeros felt: 

          Walder Frey brought it on himself. 

          The heavy velvets she wore were simple and unadorned. No onyx beads glittered at her bosom or decorated the still-smooth skin of her throat. No silk ties or subtle embroidery drew the eye to wrist or hem. Her dress was of a style prominent when Joanna still lived, uncomplicated and practical, fitting her well at torso and arm before falling to a simple skirt. Let other women trip over their sleeves or near light themselves afire emulating Cersei. She’d still to figure out how someone wrote with all that material bunched beneath their wrist. 

          Genna ran the piece of parchment she held through her fingers absently, eyes on the horizon. The sunset was beautiful, throwing golden light into the clouds and edging them with pinks and reds. The view from the western promenade was breathtaking; the Sunset Sea spread before her in a never-ending expanse of water that reflected the delicate hues of the sky above. As a girl it was her favorite place to hold court or finish some bit of embroidery, and she often chose the place to hold lessons for her niece and nephews. Though it was cold enough her breath frosted on the air, the spot usually had the ability to calm her. 

          Not today. 

          _Tywin, you idiot._

          It wasn’t the first time she thought such of her brother, and even so many months after his death, she knew it wouldn’t be the last. For all that Tywin Lannister was touted as a military genius and his machinations that raised their house from insolvency and ridicule, the man was willfully stupid when it came to certain subjects. Namely, his family. The letter in her hand was only the latest example of how his foolishness helped destroy them. 

          _Tywin, you utter idiot._

          How many times had she implored him to not discount his youngest simply for his deformity? To look past his body and understand the workings of his mind. Tyrion’s body was stunted but his mind was Tywin’s, if well-tempered. The boy had all his father’s intelligence and the proper amount of ruthlessness necessary to be a wonderful Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and an able successor to Tywin’s legacy. Instead, he indulged in his hatred of a child who could not help his mother’s death. Joanna was Tywin’s light, and that light was forever snuffed out as she bled to death on her birthing bed. No matter what promise Tyrion showed he focused his hopes on Jaime, who she knew at the age of 12 would not only make a terrible Lord Paramount, he had absolutely no interest in the position. Jaime didn’t just lack the desire to rule; he lacked the patience and subtlety required. 

          How different would their world be if Tywin spent more time molding Tyrion into his heir instead of alternately ignoring and vilifying him? If he’d focused on the ways they were similar instead of doing his utmost to make the boy’s life nothing short of a living hell? Perhaps, if he’d silenced Cersei and her mad belief that her brother killed Joffrey, Tywin would still be alive. If he’d given his youngest son half the consideration he gave Jaime, Tyrion wouldn’t have had to flee across the Narrows steps ahead of the headman’s block. He wouldn’t have found common cause with Daenerys Targaryen, and the girl might never have made it to their shores. The chaos that engulfed the capital after Cersei’s many blunders would have been contained, snuffed out before it became a threat to the throne. 

          After a final, longing look at the sea, Genna made her way to her husband’s solar, much good as it did him to have one. Emmon spent little of his time there, and she’d yet to see him study anything except a capon. It didn’t take long for him to arrive, slightly winded from climbing the stairs. She’d offered to have the solar moved to a lower level, but the fool refused for his pride. It wasn’t that she took them any better, not with the weight that thickened her middle and made her bust that much more bountiful, but she had the sense to wait until she was completely recovered to enter a room. 

          She spoke before he had a chance. “How long did you think you could hide this from me?” 

          Emmon’s eyes widened at the parchment in her hands. There was little doubt he didn’t know what it was. “How did you-” 

          “How I discovered it is unimportant.” It was Maester Hallo who broke hours before and told her of the letters from the capital. Letters Emmon was content to ignore. _You were right about one thing, Tywin, this match was beneath me._

          Her husband puffed up like sheep’s bladder. “This doesn’t concern you.” 

          She laughed at that, truly and deeply. “Doesn’t concern me? One is a letter from the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the other a letter to me from my nephew.” 

          “Daenerys Targaryen is a usurper! Cersei Lannister is the rightful queen!” 

          Her smile was sharp as daggers. “Why, husband… I didn’t know you had such a keen interest in politics.” Or such urgent belief in Cersei’s claim, nonexistent though it was. Perhaps if he’d ever shown as much as an inkling before now, they might have been able to position themselves better for their sons. Tion might yet be alive. 

          She pushed the thought and the pain that followed hard on its heels away. Karstark got his reward for the murder of her boy, along with the cowards who joined him. It was the one thing she was grateful to Robb Stark for. 

          “I pay attention to anything that affects our family.” His chin lifted. “You refuse to listen to my suggestions.” He pointed to her hand. “And I refuse to bow before a foreign whore at the head of a slave army.” 

          _You would lead us to ruin as happily as a pig rolling in shit._ “Foreign whore or not, Daenerys Targaryen is the one sitting the Iron Throne. You should have told me the moment the raven arrived.” She wondered if Daven knew. He was out taking stock of the Westerland’s stores for the winter. At his last letter, he was at Banefort and planned to take a ship back to Lannisport. She needed the boy here now. 

          Emmon’s narrow face pinched further. “Daven left the Westerlands to me until his return. It is my duty-” 

          “To know when to let someone smarter make the decisions. Yes, I know.” She unfurled the scroll sent from Tyrion. “The first letter was addressed to the Lord of Casterly Rock, but surely you didn’t miss the second that was addressed to me specifically.” He faltered under her glare. “We may have given insult to the queen because of your delay.” And as the raven for King’s Landing was still in the rookery, it was unlikely her husband had done anything except stew. 

          She had every intention of answering the queen’s summons. The girl had dragons. Genna remembered traveling past Harenhall when she was a girl. The sight of those tall towers, half-melted like candles made her shudder and send a prayer to the gods that the dragons were long since dead. Now there were three of them flying over King’s Landing. 

          Her husband chewed on his cheek. “I was waiting on word from The Twins.” 

          She raised an eyebrow. “They still haven’t located Edmure?” 

          The former Lord Paramount disappeared after his captors were poisoned. He had taken shelter with a Riverlord, no doubt. He should have been at Casterly Rock. It never sat well with her, separating him from his wife. The poor girl was little more than a shadow walking the halls, jumping at every noise and eating less than a sparrow as her belly grew large and her limbs grew spindly. Once her child was born, Rosalynn refused to part with the babe for even an hour, she was so afraid they would take him from her. 

          No, keeping them separated was not what she would have done. If Edmure were in Casterly Rock with his wife she could have worked on the man, made him more amenable to her husband’s family ruling the Riverlands. Perhaps even offered he and his family a place in the Westerlands, now that his ancestral home belonged to the Freys. She imagined the offer of peace would appeal to a man torn down by years of war, and what was Riverrun worth when he had a wife and child to think on? Either way, he wouldn’t have vanished into the ether. 

          Still, that Emmon was concerned with the man at all showed promise. Maybe her husband was smarter than she thought. 

          The apple of his throat bobbed. “They’ve had to send out our own men to hunt for him. The soldiers Cersei left were recalled to the capital.” 

          Genna fought not to roll her eyes. She knew that. Anyone not a half-wit knew Cersei recalled her army the minute she learned the Targaryen girl had taken Dragonstone. She had to fight long and hard with Daven to send only a small contingent when answering her call. They could not leave the Westerlands undefended. “And?” 

          “Kitty is barely holding the Twins.” Emmon’s face soured. “We should have killed Tully the moment he surrendered Riverrun and been done with him.” 

          _Or maybe he’s just as stupid as you’ve always known._ Genna approached her husband slowly. He was a tall stick of a man; his chin all but invisible, sweat starting to bead on his bald head, but he backed away from her as if she carried a mace and knew how to wield it. “And what do you think would happen if you’d killed Edmure Tully? The Riverlords bucked your family’s rule even when they knew he was a prisoner. Do you think any of them would follow you if Edmure were dead?” They might have risen up and slaughtered the Freys before Stark’s bastard got around to it. 

          Her husband sputtered. “With father dead, I am Lord Paramount of the Riverlands!” 

          “The Dragon Queen may have some say in that.” Genna gave him a level stare. “Seeing as Edmure Tully’s wife and son are our guests.” 

          “Tywin stripped the Tullys of Riverrun. It belongs to the Frey’s, and I am Walder’s oldest remaining son.” 

          “Do you really think that girl will let a family that can barely hold its own castle rule the Riverlands?” And good riddance. How many uprisings had their armies had to quell in the years since? Too many to count, both large and small. The taxes they collected were pitiful, even for a land torn by war. Another way in which her brother was a fool. The Riverlands provided a good amount of food to the West at cheaper prices than the Tyrells. Now, the Riverlords would be unable to feed themselves, let alone sell as winter deepened. And with the Reach siding with the Targaryen girl… “We’ve been called to court, husband mine. By both the queen and my nephew.” 

          _I implore you, aunt, please come to King’s Landing and swear fealty to our Queen. Speak to cousin Daven and convince him to send you in his stead, if he will not come himself._

          She could taste the desperation behind those words. 

          Emmon sneered. “Of course, that monster would be at the whore’s side. Your brother-” 

          “My brother is dead,” Genna said, sure to keep her words slow and measured. “Cersei is either dead or buried so deep in the Black Cells she is as good as. The same can be said for Jaime. Tyrion has managed to become Hand of the Queen and sits in a position to save our family. Not only that, he is willing to do so.” If the invitation was solely from the Targaryen she might have been convinced to dig into the Rock and wait for her death. Tyrion would not have her march to her end. “Now is our chance to show Daenerys Targaryen that we mean to be her most loyal subjects. And if that means crawling down the Gold Road on hands and knees to the gates of the Red Keep, I will do so, and you _will_ be at my side.” 

          Emmon’s face drained of color as she spoke until he resembled nothing so much as the belly of some pale fish. “But…” 

          “Now,” she stood and folded her hands primly. “We will speak to Daven once he returns, so we can begin preparations to travel to the capital.” She would see Daenerys Targaryen herself. See if the girl was anything like the woman Joanna once counted as a friend or if there was naught in her but her father. Daven would remain in Casterly Rock. Or not. He was unwed, after all. Genna sighed. It would mean convincing him to shear off the abomination he called his hair and beard. 

          As her husband sputtered out his excuses, she turned her thoughts to the realities of traveling. The Summer Sea could be treacherous in winter but traveling overland would be difficult with the snows coming so far south. She would have to weigh each carefully before deciding. 

* * *

        He was on fire. 

        His limbs felt like they were baking black, cracked and dried to the marrow by terrible heat. A bonfire churned in his belly so smoke should spill from his mouth, and yet he couldn’t scream. Samwell Tarly said as much when he led him to his new cell, further into the sick ward of the Citadel. 

        _“If the Archmaester finds you he’ll see you on a ship to Valyria before the day is out,” the boy said as they walked down the winding corridors. “The Citadel pays the captains well to keep the infected locked in their cabins before shoving them onto a rowboat in the Smoking Sea.”_

        More like shoving them overboard the moment they were on the open sea, _Jorah thought. His mind drifted to his journey through the ruins with Tyrion Lannister. They were only the outermost islands, far from the volcanic heart of the ruin, rumored to be eternally obscured by smoke. It was rumored the further into Valyria one traveled the hotter the waters grew until the waves near boiled. “I’ve been to Valyria,” he said._

_Tarly stopped walking and looked to him in astonishment. “Really?”_

_“It’s how I got greyscale, traveling through the outermost ruins.” He shook his head. “I thought it worth the risk.”_

        _“What was it like?” Samwell asked, eyes shining with excitement. “There are books about it. Archmaester Marwyn claims to have sailed through the outer islands and survived. He wrote they were some of the most astonishing buildings he ever saw.”_

        _Jorah’s mind filled with the large stone structures half-hidden by vegetation, still beautiful despite hundreds of years of neglect. The Great Pyramid of Mereen was monstrous in its size, but some of the ruins in Valyria were just as tall as slender as reeds. “They are a sight to behold,” he answered slowly. “Some of the stone columns are so thin you wonder how they manage to hold the buildings up and curve like snakes, sinuous and strong without a seam.” Once, while he was half-asleep the maw of a great dragon emerged from the mist and vegetation around them, so lifelike he thought Drogon must have landed on the banks._

        _It seemed like an age before Sam stopped in front of an unmarked door and opened it. Inside there was nothing, not even a mattress on the stone floor._

        _Jorah turned to him._

        _“It’s not better, I’m afraid,” he said with a strange laugh. “But we can’t risk you reinfecting yourself.” He gestured to his arm and torso, slathered with the unguents Tarly applied after the stony skin was stripped away and tightly bound. He was thankful he’d passed out shortly after the procedure started. Whether from the pain or the smell he had yet to determine. “Those are open wounds. Until you heal, you’ll be safer here.” He looked down. “I scrubbed the room down myself. You could eat off the floor if you wanted.”_

        _Jorah stumbled into the bare cell. The thick novice robes and hose he wore would do nothing to keep him warm if he had to sleep on bare stone._

        _“No one uses this section of the healing ward anymore. It’s mostly storage and the like, but you’ll have to be quiet. If they find you down here…”_

        _“They won’t.” He turned to the boy. “Are you sure this will work?”_

        _Tarly swallowed. “Well, you didn’t die when I cut the infection away, and you’re able to walk and talk on your own. So… so far it’s working.”_

        _It was the best he could hope for. “My effects?”_

        _“Right. Most of the clothes will have to be burned. Greyscale is tenacious in cloth items. The sword and scabbard will be treated and boiled before being cataloged to be sold later.” He lifted a hand before Jorah could speak. “It’s what’s done with any personal items carried into the Citadel by the sick when they die. I’ll make sure they aren’t sold. Alleras owes me a favor.”_

        _He didn’t like it, but there was nothing to be done. The Archmaester had to believe he died in the night and was burned before dawn with two others who passed, Samwell said when they started their journey. It was the only way he could stay and finish the treatments Tarly was sure would save his life._

        _“In a week we should see if the treatment worked.” The boy was full of false cheer. “I’ll be down twice a day to see to feeding you, and I’ll change the bandages at night. Don’t take them off or scratch at them.”_

        _Tarly handed him the lantern and gestured for him to walk in._

        _“Try to rest,” the boy said as the door closed._

        That was five days ago, by his reckoning, and he wondered if the greyscale was a kinder fate. 

        Tarly warned him that according to his books, fever was a common problem for those successfully fighting the disease and that it was a good sign, but nothing prepared him for the way his body felt ready to boil itself. The gruel Samwell smuggled down to him either came up immediately or ran out of him in foulness into a covered bucket a few hours later, and the salves were their own torture. They alternated in burning him alive or thrusting him into a winter deeper than anything he knew on Bear Island. His waking moments were spent struggling not to moan, lest he draw notice to himself. 

        When the fever started, he was given a narrow length of leather to lay on, but no blanket. The first three nights he was forced to stand (once sit, when his legs refused to take his weight) in a bucket and pour a cloudy, bitter smelling liquid over himself and remain still until it began to feel as if ants were crawling over him before pouring a bucket of vinegar over his head, followed by water. After drying himself Tarly spread salve over his wounds and rebound them before handing him clean robes and bidding him try to sleep. It was a tedious process that took hours, but Tarly came every night with his carts full of jars and buckets, leather apron and gloves already donned. 

        “If we were above the Wall, I’d think you were preparing me for roasting,” he told the boy one night. 

        Tarly laughed. “Well, the salve does contain mustard.” 

        He learned much of Samwell Tarly during those hours. The boy talked when he was nervous and had yet to learn not to give away valuable information. He learned he was the firstborn son of Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill in the Reach. That he was a brother of the Night’s Watch sent by Lord Commander Jon Snow to become a maester for Castle Black. It was through Samwell that he learned Jon Snow led the mission to avenge the murder of his father. He could hardly believe that Ned Stark allowed his bastard to take the Black with the way he doted on the boy. “He must be Ashara’s,” his father said of the small, dark-haired child that haunted Winterfell as they rode back to Bear Island from the celebrations for the birth of Sansa Stark. “There was only one woman Ned Stark loved by choice, and that was Ashara Dayne.” 

        When Tarly was away during the day he tried to sleep through the worst of the pain, but that sleep was troubled by strange dreams. Once he was with Daenerys in Drogo’s pyre, staring as she draped herself over her husband’s body and her dress burned away leaving char behind. The fire that consumed him danced over her skin and hair like water. In another he was drowning in the deep pool under the falls of his home. He would break the surface only to be dragged under again, and each time he was able to suck in a breath he could see his father on the banks, his face long and sorrowful. 

  

        _“And you say there have been no new eruptions in over a week?”_

        Jorah tried to force his eyes to open, but it felt like lead weights were attached to them. He didn’t know that voice. It was light and young. Something sharp poked his arm and he hissed. 

        “None.” That was Samwell. “We’ve been following Grandmaester Pylos’s instructions to the letter.” 

        A hushed, ouch met that declaration. 

        “You don’t seem to be infected.” The new voice mused. 

        “Of course I’m…do you think I would bring you down here if I thought there was a chance the infection would spread?” 

        There was the sound of rustling cloth. “Pylos spread greyscale through the Citadel with his experiments. Read the ledgers from the Great Purge. Near half the maesters and novices fell victim to it.” 

        “I thought the Purge was to flush the Citadel of heretics.” 

        “You know how to read, Tarly,” the voice was acerbic. “Learn how to read between the lines.” 

        “Sam?” Jorah croaked. Gods, but it hurt to speak. 

        “He’s awake!” A hand pressed gently on his chest. “I’m here, Ser Jorah. You’ve been sleeping for the past three days.” 

        _Three days?_ He focused and forced his eyes to open. His cell was well-lit for the first time, and Tarly’s face swam above him before settling. The boy smiled down as bright as the sun. 

        “We were worried.” At a distant snort, he corrected himself. “I was worried. When you wouldn’t wake, I feared the fever ran too high but it calmed in the night. Alleras agreed to watch over you while I did my rounds.” 

        Mormont turned his head slowly. The owner of the other voice was a man dark of skin and eye, with thick, curling hair cropped close to his head and sharp, fine-boned features. A Dornishman, most likely, though the deep hue of his skin hinted at ancestry even further south. Perhaps his mother met a Summer Islander. His eyes were a bright, shining onyx that observed him with curiosity. 

        “This is Alleras,” Samwell said. “He's been helping me keep you hidden.” 

        “And keeping your effects from the auction block.” The stranger’s voice was full of amusement. 

        Jorah gave a small nod. “I thank you.” 

        “You should. Now close your eyes so we can continue.” 

        Jorah's brow furrowed. “Continue?” 

        Alleras turned an unamused eye to Tarly. “Novice Tarly wishes to present you to the Archmaester as evidence that Maester Pylos's treatment is effective and risk his future in the Citadel, instead of smuggling you out as I suggest.” The Dornishmen fixed him with a cold stare. “We have to be sure full feeling has returned to the affected tissue before then.” 

          He endured the poking for long minutes as Alleras continued his examination, testing his exposed chest, back, and arm repeatedly with a thin blade. It was a relief to feel the pain after months of nothingness. Finally, he was told he could open his eyes only to find Samwell gone. 

        “He’s fetching bone broth and bread from the kitchens,” the acolyte explained as he dipped his blade in a tall cup, a stiletto with a sinuous shape near the hilt. “You’ll need to eat and regain some strength before we can move you back to your original cell. You, Ser Jorah, have been the victim of a terrible clerical error. Understandable, considering how many sick men are in the wards. The cold has not been kind.” 

        Jorah’s stomach clenched at the thought of bread. It was the first time in a long while he could recall having an appetite. “Do you think that will work?” 

        Alleras gave him another blank look. “Tarly plans to take the risk, so what I think doesn’t matter so long as he keeps my involvement to himself. The last few days have been difficult. Tarly thought you would die.” He said the words as if the thought of him dying meant nothing. 

        “The fever broke some hours ago,” he continued, removing the blade from the cup. He carefully wiped it clean with a soft cloth before tucking it into his sleeve with disturbing ease, the gesture more in keeping with a sellsword or soldier than a man training as a maester.

        “I’m cured then?” 

        “Tarly can tell you that. You’re his patient, not mine.”

        Jorah let the possibility sink in. Greyscale was a death sentence for all but young children, everyone knew that. From the moment his skin first began to crack and fade he knew he was going to die, no matter what his queen charged him with. The healers of Volantis wanted to turn him over to the Red God to be burned and would have if he dared to linger in the city. The few who claimed to work magic he discovered in Pentos claimed only shadowbinders knew the secret to cure the disease, and that the price was far higher than his life. The Citadel of Old Town was his last hope, and when the maesters did no more than direct him to a cell to be locked away he wept. 

        “You’re very lucky it was Tarly who felt he owed you a debt,” the younger man said from his crouch. “No one else would be willing to risk their life for you here.” 

        Luck was something he seemed to have in abundance if nothing else. “If it’s so risky, why are you helping him?” 

        “Him?” Alleras shook his head. “I’m not helping Tarly, fool that he is. He thinks the maesters will be excited to learn that Pylos was right, but he’s wrong. Pylos's treatments are known to be effective, they just don’t use them.” At his confused expression, the boy shrugged. “The treatment is too dangerous, the chance of contamination too great. Better to let the infected die than risk the maester's life.” He smirked. “Though dousing you with lye is an inspired way to reduce the chance of spreading the infection.” 

        Jorah leaned up onto his elbows. “If you’re not helping Tarly, why are you helping me?” 

        The Dornishman’s gaze was piercing. “Because you are going to tell me everything you know about Daenerys Targaryen and her plans for Westeros, Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island.” 

        Daenerys? 

        “Samwell didn’t tell you, did he?” Alleras settled on the floor. “Daenerys Targaryen landed on Dragonstone and in less time than anyone thought possible took King's Landing. The old men have been near shitting themselves since she sent a raven declaring herself queen and asking them to send a new Grand Maester.” 

        Daenerys was in Kings Landing? He exhaled sharply. She’d done it then. She was queen. “Who do they plan to send?” 

        “While they’re debating, Archmaester Marwyn is making his way to the capital. She’ll like him, I think. He spent over a decade in Essos. He’ll make a better Grand Maester than whichever of the grey sheep the Archmaester decides to send.” 

        There was derision in Alleras’s tone and more than a little disgust. “If you hate the maesters so much, why try to be one of them?” 

        The man’s expression didn't change. “My reasons are my own, Ser Jorah.” 

        “And how do you know anything I tell you about the new queen will be true?” he breathed. Their conversation exhausted him. 

        “Because you want to leave this place and return to her side.” Alleras’s mouth tilted in the smallest of smiles. “Don’t deny it. You called her name more than once while you were delirious. And the fastest way to do that is to tell me what I want. Tarly has yet to forge a single link in his chain. He called me here to confirm that the greyscale is done with you. Tell me what I want and I will tell him you're cured, and you can make your way to the Red Keep. As for truth?” The smile vanished as if it had never been. “I am very good at discerning lies.” 

* * *

          He hated this part of being king. 

          The paperwork he made his peace with. The constant meetings between himself, Sansa, and Davos on how to deal with the problems of the realm were, for the most part, enjoyable, though there were times he felt unneeded. He had a sneaking suspicion that between Ser Davos’s bare practicality and Sansa’s cunning, the two could most likely dismiss their burgeoning Small Council and rule the kingdom themselves. Then he would think about the missives, the egos, and everything else that went into keeping his lords under control and thought better of it. They might decide to execute the lot of them and be done with it, something he was often tempted with himself. 

          It was this part of ruling, the part where he had to stand like a fool to greet arriving nobles, that he hated. He thought of the letters from the Watch that sat unanswered on his desk, requesting more supplies if they had any to spare. The strange letter from Skagos declaring their allegiance to the Stark in Winterfell. He was still unsure if they meant him (unlikely, as he was a Snow) or Sansa (unlikely, because she was either a Lannister or a Bolton, depending on how one thought of it). The matter of the rumors of him and Sansa that seemed to die and then restart. He had more important things to do than stand in the main bailey of Winterfell. 

          “If you sigh any deeper, you’ll give the game away,” Sansa said, her lips barely moving. 

          “No one thinks we’re happy to stand here in the cold,” he countered. 

          She turned to him then. “I told you they should meet you in the Great Hall. You’re the king, they are your subjects. They come to you.” 

          “They’ve already come from White Harbor.” 

          Sansa gave a small shake of her head and turned to the gates when they opened. 

          When Lord Manderly insisted on staying in Winterfell after Jon’s coronation, he hadn’t known what to expect. Wyman Manderly was one of House Stark’s most loyal bannermen. From the moment they were allowed to shelter in the North, the displaced house was the first to answer his family’s call to arms in every battle or skirmish. Their refusal to come to their aid in the Battle of Winterfell made little sense until he was able to speak with Lord Manderly shortly after he was declared king. 

          _“My boy, Wendell, died alongside your brother at the hands of the Freys.” Lord Manderly’s face was set in stone. It was late, and they sat in the older man’s rooms in the Guest House, the fire burning in the grate throwing crimson light and dancing shadows on the walls. “It took years for Wyllis to return home, and he was half dead when the Freys threw him onto the docks at White Harbor. Near six months Leona and my granddaughters nursed him back to health, and the very moment the color returns to his cheeks, Roose Bolton demanded a representative of House Manderly to attend the wedding of his bastard to your sister._

          _“Wyllis argued that he should go, that as Lord it was my place to stay in White Harbor. That if they held me, they could force me to surrender Castle Hornwood. If the Boltons did hold your sister, he was determined to find a way to save her.” Wyman’s eyes filled with tears that he hastily blinked away. “You will never know how sorry he is that he failed. Sansa was too well-guarded, and Ramsay would only let her walk the yard if she was with him. When she jumped from the battlements, she was safe, but my son was still a prisoner.” The lord shuddered. “When you sent the raven from Castle Black, all I wanted was to raise White Harbor, but I couldn’t. I lost Wendell to treachery. I couldn’t lose Wyllis, not so soon after having him back.” His eyes were sorrowful. “I must beg forgiveness, my King. House Stark took my family in when we were hunted in the South, gave us rich lands and titles, and when you needed us most, White Harbor was silent.”_

          _Jon said nothing for long moments. He was not a father, had never truly entertained the prospect of having children. He couldn’t imagine the fear Manderly lived in while Wyllis was Ramsay’s prisoner. He thought back to Stannis and his offer of legitimacy. How he feared what the bastard would do to Sansa as a means to punish him. “I spoke true to Lord Glover, Lord Wyman. There is nothing to forgive.”_

            Two hours earlier a party flying Manderly colors was spotted on the road, and Lord Wyman rode out to meet them. He was the first through the gates, his horse (a giant thing with thick, muscular legs, more akin to a plow horse) huffing in the cold air. Jon tried not to stare as he saw Lord Manderly’s granddaughters, Wynafryd and Wylla, for the first time. Both girls were tall and willowy, with pale skin, blue eyes, and delicate features. They must have taken after a grandmother, for their mother, Leona Manderly, was shorter than either girl, square-jawed and rather plump, her cheeks red from the cold. Wynafryd, the older, wore her long dark hair pulled into a thick braid woven with a pale blue ribbon that matched the wool traveling dress she wore. 

          It was Wylla that held his eyes from the moment she tossed back the hood of her cloak. 

          He’d never seen green hair before. 

          The younger Manderly granddaughter had hair dyed a deep, clear green. While her sister’s hair was woven with a simple ribbon, she wore hers adorned with seashells that clicked as she dismounted from her horse. 

          “Don’t stare,” Sansa whispered next to him. 

          “Lord Manderly said his granddaughter was blonde,” he whispered back. 

          “She is. Do you think her hair grows that color?” 

          Jon gave a small shake of his head and tilted his lips in something approximating a smile as the trio of women came forward. 

          “My King,” Lord Manderly said as he gave a knelt. A step behind him, his gooddaughter and granddaughters did the same. 

          “Stand, my lord, my ladies,” he said quickly. “And be welcome to Winterfell.” 

          Manderly stood with a grateful smile. “May I introduce my gooddaughter, Lady Leona Manderly, and her daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla.” 

          The two girls stepped forward as their names were mention. “Your Grace,” they said together. This close he could see that Wynafryd’s eyes were dark blue, while Wylla’s were the blue of a summer sky. 

          “I thank you, my ladies, for braving the snows for your grandfather.” Jon moved slightly to the side. “My sister, Sansa Stark.” 

          Sansa stepped forward and gave them a wide smile. “You must be tired from your long journey. Please, we’ve had rooms and mulled wine prepared for you.” 

          “You are most kind, My Lady, Your Grace,” Leona’s gaze went to her goodfather. “Wyman has written much about the hospitality of Winterfell, and we are honored to be able to experience it.” 

          Wylla stepped forward. “Is it true you have a direwolf, Your Grace?” she asked with a smile. Her voice was high, but not unpleasantly so. 

          “Aye.” He gave a glance around the courtyard, though he knew Ghost was absent. Gone to the Wolfswood sometime in the night and yet to return. “I imagine you’ll get used to the sight of him.” 

          “Then you don’t keep him chained in the kennels?” 

          “Why would I? Winterfell is his home.” 

          “Perhaps we should leave the yard before our toes grow more numb,” Wynafryd said when it looked like her sister would ask another question. 

          Sansa lifted a hand. “If you would follow me,” she said as she guided them into the castle. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter we will bounce around just about all of Westeros, and get a glimpse of what's happening in Meereen.  
> While finalizing this chapter I realized that some parts should rightly be sections of other chapters, so sometime before the next update I will move them to where they are supposed to be for better narrative flow and to help maintain the timeline of events.
> 
> [Wintertown ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Winter_town)  
> [ Lady Anya Waynwood](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Anya_Waynwood)  
> [ Lord's Declarant ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Lords_Declarant)  
> [Lord Wyman Manderly ](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Wyman_Manderly)  
> [ Lady Barbrey Dustin ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Barbrey_Dustin)  
> [ Tyrosh ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Tyrosh)  
> [ Summer Islands](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Summer_Isles)  
> [ Genna Frey ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Genna_Lannister)  
> [ Kitty Frey ](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Kitty_Frey)  
> [ Patchface ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Patchface) There are as many fan theories about Patchface as there are about Euron. He may be a prophet, he may be mad, but he is the _only_ character that Melissandre is afraid of.  
> [Alleras](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Alleras)  
> [Archmaester Marwyn](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Marwyn)  
> [ Wynafryd Manderly ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Wynafryd_Manderly)  
> [ Wylla Manderly ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Wylla_Manderly)  
> [ Leona Manderly ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Leona_Woolfield)
> 
> When visualizing Winterfell I will admit that I keep closer to the book's design than the shows, which is very different. If you want to visualize the book version Shadaversity built a both book _and_ history based version of Winterfell [HERE ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZdbpfcxfSk). Most of the video goes through how he designed the castle and why he made certain choices, but the 3d walkthrough begins at 19:52.  
> Greyscale doesn't have a real-world alternative unless you want to liken the fear of it to leprosy. Judging by how it is treated in the show the disease seems to work by overwhelming the host's immune system through massive, fast-moving infection as evidenced by the large amount of puss that comes out when Samwell begins debriding Jorah. It may also explain why young children are more likely to survive the disease, as their immune systems are stronger. Once the infected skin is removed it gives the body the chance to fight the infection, which should rightly take several days, most likely several weeks. At that point, Samwell focuses on making sure the exposed tissue is treated to prevent a secondary infection. In any event, Jorah's treatment should have taken _at least_ a week to complete, not a single night as shown in show.  
> One day I am going to post links so you all can see who I imagine the non-show characters look like.


	12. From Dorne to the Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has reviewed and/or left kudos, you guys are beyond awesome! Thanks for hanging in there with me ^_^
> 
> Two sections were moved from the previous chapter to an earlier chapter to improve narrative flow, but no content has been changed.
> 
> The chapter contains non-graphic mentions of torture, flaying, and marital rape starting after the Dorne section. If this bothers you, please be advised. They are short sentences in italics.

          It was if Manderly opened the floodgates. 

          Over the next weeks, Jon lost count of the lords and ladies who paraded their daughters in front of him. They were in the first days of winter, but it could have been the height of summer with the regularity with which he greeted his bannermen. He found himself giving in to Sansa’s suggestion and meeting them in the Great Hall so that he could get more work done in the meantime, the high table more often than not filled with ledgers and correspondence. When Lord Glover presented his daughter, a thin, timid girl just past her flowering, he decided enough was enough. 

          “She’s flowered.” 

          “A handful of years ago!” The girl couldn’t have been more than fifteen, closer to fourteen, more like. “What kind of monster-” 

          “Not a monster,” Sansa soothed from her chair. “A king, looking for a queen. A young, beautiful queen who will give him heirs.” 

          “We did try to warn you, lad.” 

          Jon stopped pacing to stare at his Hand and his sister. They were the only two in Winterfell who seemed to have any sympathy for his plight. Lord Royce’s constant and not-so-subtle suggestions that he marry an heiress from the Vale to solidify their alliance was grating, as was Lord Manderly’s singing his granddaughter’s praises while they discussed White Harbor’s ability to provide food for the North with his sparse fleet. When Lord Hallin Mollen, their Master of Laws lamented on only having five boys he gave an audible sigh of relief. 

          It was even worse for Sansa. A good portion of the ladies accompanying their husbands brought along younger daughters who were then given over into her care with little more than a by your leave. Lady Stout practically simpered as she handed over her daughter, a girl of three and ten, stating his sister would ensure the girl became a ‘woman House Stout would be proud of’. He was prepared to comment when Sansa’s hand latched onto his wrist and she accepted responsibility of the girl with a smile. 

          His sister handled this new responsibility with the dedication she took on everything else. A floor of the Guest House was given over to her new charges, their days and evenings not spent with their families organized with lessons overseen by Sansa or Maester Wolkan else they were set to simple tasks. Those who were able spent time sewing clothes for the smallfolk, making sure their people had ample shirts and hose to keep them warm. Others were given the charge of reading to the children in Wintertown, or else repairing clothes for the soldiers. She brought three Free Folk women from the camp outside Winterfell, Urd, Dala, and Asny, to show them how to better work with furs. Two showed an interest in healing and she had them following Wolkan as he went about his duties, learning what they could of unguents and caring for wounds. If there was any dissent from the maester or their lady mothers, Jon never heard of it. 

          A Court of Winter was growing around them, as Sansa took to calling it, and he thankfully had very little to do with it. 

          Jon ran a hand through his hair as he thought of the group of young women he passed in the halls early that morning. Their giggling and quick glances. “There’s got to be something.” 

          “Part of the court in King’s Landing was Cersei’s Ladies in Waiting,” Sansa said slowly. “Spiteful harpies, the lot of them. If she needed information, or to start a rumor, she relied on them.” She lifted her chin. “As Lady of Winterfell, it is my prerogative to have such ladies to attend me, especially as I have duties as Master of Coin that will take me away from normal womanly pursuits. I will regretfully inform the remaining houses of the North that I have enough ladies and wards at the moment.” 

          “Will that stop them?” Jon asked. He hated how pathetically hopeful his voice sounded. 

          The look she gave him made him lean forward over his desk, his head in his hands. “If this is what it means to be a king, I’d rather face the Night King naked.” When Sansa reached for his ear he reared back. “That’s not brooding, I’m being serious.” 

          “At least the Wildlings aren’t expecting you to choose a queen from among them,” she teased. 

          Jon rolled his eyes. “They’d expect me to steal a woman, not march her in front of me like a sheep for slaughter.” And spend his first night watching for a knife or cudgel if he wasn’t to her liking. Ygritte… He shook thoughts of her out of his mind. “Maybe I should. They’re the only ones who seem to understand what’s coming.” 

          It was a constant irritation, his bannermen’s unspoken insistence that his fears were unfounded. That even if the White Walkers were real, and not some ploy created by the Free Folk to allow them below the Wall to survive the worst winter in living memory the Wall had protected the realm for 8,000 years. They expected it would protect them for 8,000 more, but Jon couldn’t rely on that. Mance spent 20 years pulling the Free Folk together to give them a chance to survive, and he trusted the instincts of a people who fought the dead from the beginning over those who’d all but forgotten them. 

          “People understand what they can see. They can see a king without a queen. They can see and feel winter. Their smallfolk in need of food and shelter. They’ve never seen the dead walking, killing anything living,” Davos shuddered, and Jon knew what he was thinking of; Hardhome, and what it must have looked like from the ships. A mass of black overtaking the village, the screams of the battle and the terrible silence as the recently dead stood. 

          Jon frowned. “They’ll understand soon enough.” He sighed deeply. “There’s other news that needs dealing with.” He pulled two missives out of his desk. He stared at them before handing Sansa the one that came the evening before. 

          “What’s this?” she asked as she unfurled the parchment. 

          “It’s from a brother named Samwell Tarly. He believes he’s found us dragonglass… a mountain of it. On Dragonstone.” 

          His sister froze, blue eyes swinging from the scroll to him to Davos. “Dragonstone? Ser Davos, did you know?” 

          Davos shrugged. “It washes up on shore at times, pebbles rolled smooth by the waves… sea glass, the villagers call it. Usually black, but Shireen had a few pieces that were red, one that was even green, but nothing like what we'd need here.” 

          “Sam says the Targaryens discovered it when they landed on the island. They mined it for jewelry and the like. Seems it was special to them.” But no one else, which explained why it was forgotten once they were deposed. 

          Her fingers tightened around the scroll so he thought she would rip it in half. “So you’re going to do it? You’re going to Dragonstone.” 

          Jon’s expression turned grim. “It’s either that or the Red Keep.” 

          Sansa sucked in a breath, jaw clenched as if she were about to do violence before she stilled herself. He was joking before, but now he felt she truly might throw a shoe at him. “Why would you go to King’s Landing? Cersei will kill you.” 

          It was Davos’s turn to inhale deeply. “Because Cersei Lannister no longer sits the Iron Throne,” he said the words in a long huff of breath. 

          Jon handed her the second missive. Maester Wolkan was pale as curdled milk when he gave the letter to him less than an hour ago. 

          Sansa read the words, her eyes darting about the page. “This is real?” She looked at him. “Daenerys Targaryen is Queen in the south?” 

          He nodded. “As far as we know. She’s probably sent the same message to every House in the Seven Kingdoms.” 

          Several emotions passed over his sister’s face. Disbelief was first, followed by confusion, relief and settling on a strange apprehension. “The other lords will find out soon.” 

          “And we can’t be seen as trying to hide it,” Jon agreed. “Soon ravens and riders will be coming from all over the North to let the lords here know what’s happened. Maester Wolkan has pledged to hold messages from any ravens, but that can only last for so long. Better we tell them than they find out another way.” 

          He knew she would agree. It will make them look weak as if they were deliberately hiding the truth from their lords out of fear. “When do you plan on telling them?” 

          Jon stared into the flames of his fireplace. “I’m calling a conclave within the hour. It will take too long to gather everyone else. They’ll hear it from me before any other source.” 

          “And what do you mean to do after?” Her eyes were ice. “You can’t mean to go south.” 

          “This is the third missive that has directed me there.” He couldn’t help the wry, almost pained smile that grew on his face. He felt like a pawn being moved on a great cyvasse board, and he hated it. Could almost hear Melissandre whispering in his ear of destiny. “It seems the gods want me there.” 

          “The gods?” Sansa’s voice was heavy with disdain. “You still believe in the gods?” 

          Jon frowned. “You’re talking to a man who died and was brought back, and you don’t believe in gods?” 

          She rolled her eyes and gave a small shake of her head. 

          “What?” 

          His sister’s smile was indulgent. “Do you really expect me to believe that, Jon?” she asked. “I’m not a wildling, and no one here is calling you a deserter. You don’t have to lie to me.” 

          Jon leaned over his desk for a moment. His eyes went to Davos, who gave a nod. Without a word, he stood and began unlacing his jerkin. Once that was done, he went to work on the quilted shirt beneath, eyes focused on his hands. 

          “What are you doing?” 

          The edge of panic in Sansa’s voice made him look up. Her normally pale skin was pallid, her eyes wide. She clutched the sharp, heavy weight at the bottom of her necklace and pressed herself as far back into her chair as she could. Jon froze and wanted to curse himself for seven kinds of fools. There couldn’t have been many situations in which a man undressing in her presence didn’t end in torment for her. “I would never hurt you, Sansa,” he soothed. “You know that.” Her gaze sharpened on him like a hawk, taking him in, assessing in a way that sparked rage at the Bolton bastard that he thought he’d buried. “Nor would Davos let me if I tried. I just…” He heaved in a steadying breath. “I need to show you something.” 

          “I’m not much of a fighter, my Lady,” Seaworth admitted. “But I’m sure I could wrap your brother up long enough for you to get away if he tried anything. Which he would never.” 

          Some tension left her shoulders at the older man’s words, but not nearly enough. Sansa closed her eyes. Something firmed in the set of her shoulders as she seemed to come to a decision and turned back to him. “You won’t hurt me,” she said the words softly, but with conviction. 

          Jon picked up his sword belt and unsheathed his dagger. Her flinch was small, but it was there, and his anger flared even brighter. The metal, freshly sharpened, gleamed. “Here,” he said, handing it to her hilt first, moving slowly so he wouldn’t startle her further and staying nearly out of arm’s reach. 

          Sansa took the weapon delicately. “Why are you giving me this?” Her voice was tremulous. 

          “If I try to hurt you, stick me with the pointy end.” 

          Her hand tightened on the hilt until her knuckles went grey. He backed away from her until he was against the wall. Once the laces of his shirt were undone Jon looked to Davos, who gave a single nod. Steeling himself, he allowed a beat of his heart before he shrugged out of it. 

          “Oh.” 

          The word was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. 

          He knew what his scars looked like. They were no longer the gaping red wounds that marred his chest when he was first resurrected, but they were still horrible. The puckered flesh was slow to heal and told of wounds no man should have been able to survive. 

          That no man could have survived. 

          “Jon?” 

          Sansa was white as fresh-fallen snow, the hand holding the knife shaking so hard the tip of the blade wavered. She stood and walked slowly towards him, eyes on the largest of the scars, made by Ser Alliser’s blade. She reached out and touched it with a trembling hand before wrenching away as if she’d been scalded. Her hand hovered over the other five, counting each one, before she stepped back, confusion and fear plain on her face. The only sound in the room for long moments the crackling of the fire. 

          “How… who did this?” she finally asked, the words little more than air. 

          “When I let the Free Folk through the Wall some of the brothers thought I was betraying the Watch,” he explained, tugging his shirt back on quickly, voice rough. He focused on the laces, making sure each was in its proper hole. He tightened it so he near choked himself. “A group of brothers named me traitor and lured me to the yard. They stabbed me. One of them was my steward, a boy of twelve. The Free Folk slaughtered his parents in front of him, destroyed his village. It’s why he was at the Wall.” To this day Olly haunted him. He should have taken the time to explain everything, seen the pain the boy was in and worked to help him past it instead of allowing Alliser and his poison to taint him. 

          “That’s why they let you leave.” Her words were barely above a whisper. 

          “My watch had ended.” 

          “But…” she looked him up and down. “How are you here?” 

          _I shouldn’t be._ Jon pushed the thought away as he tugged on his jerkin. It was one of the first things he could remember saying after waking from the dark: _I shouldn’t be here._ For the first time since his resurrection, he felt cold. “Davos.” The name broke in his throat. “He saw Melissandre work her magic for Stannis. Asked her to try and bring me back.” 

          Sansa turned to the other man. 

          “I didn’t know if it was possible,” the former smuggler said, voice low. “I’d seen some of what she could do; things that haunt me to this day. I hoped she could do this one good thing; save a good man from a death he didn’t deserve. I almost thought she’d failed. She thought she’d failed… and then Jon started breathing.” 

          His sister looked ill. “Do you… do you remember anything?” 

          Jon settled heavily in his chair; scars once again hidden. He wanted to lie. Wanted to tell her their father’s tales of a land of endless summer were true. That the septa’s stories of marble cities where the faithful lived free from hunger and pain were what lay beyond, but he could not. He shook his head. “I was in the yard, Olly standing over me. Then there was nothing. Just darkness.” A darkness that lasted an eternity and no time at all. That yawned up at him when he tried to sleep and left him lying awake more often than he wanted to admit. “Then I was in my quarters, naked.” 

          Sansa stared at him; the dagger forgotten in her hand. “How… how soon after…” 

          “How soon after did you arrive at Castle Black? Two days.” 

          She seemed to collapse in on herself for a moment, her shoulders rolling forward, her head down before she breathed deeply. “And I asked you to risk dying again…to going back to…to…” 

          Davos reached out and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “You didn’t know,” he soothed. 

          Understanding dawned in her eyes. “That’s why you looked at me like that when I said I wasn’t going back to Ramsay. Like you wanted to tell me something.” 

          He almost had. Almost told her about the nothingness, the darkness, but hadn’t. Anything was better than being in Ramsay Bolton’s clutches. His eyes searched hers. “Would it have made a difference?” 

          Sansa looked at the dagger in her hand. The edges were keen, slightly brighter than the rest of the blade. He could almost see what she was thinking. How easily the blade could part the thin skin of her wrists, so quickly there would be almost no pain. “No.” She set the dagger on his desk. “No, it would have made no difference at all.” 

          Jon returned the dagger to its sheath. “The lords don’t know.” A few suspected there was more to his dismissal from the Watch, he thought. Set their men among the Free Folk and ravens to the Wall, asking questions of how they came south. Of what happened at Castle Black that the Night’s Watch wasn’t calling for his head as a deserter. Baelish surely did, though the Free Folk trusted the men of the Vale as much as they trusted an Other, and they had little use for any coin he could offer. So far, Edd’s only response was that it was business of the Watch and that Jon Snow’s oaths were fulfilled. 

          “Petyr will find out,” she sounded close to panic. 

          “He wouldn’t believe it.” It wasn’t like he paraded his scars in the yard, and he made sure his door was locked before changing. “Just more Northern superstitions and lies to save me from the headman’s block.” And so what if he did? It would only affirm the truth of his claim and that he was honestly discharged from the Watch. 

          “The Red Woman brought you back from death, yet you had her exiled.” 

          Jon nodded. “She killed Shireen Baratheon. Burned her at the stake in a ritual to help Stannis win against Ramsay.” 

          Davos turned away at his words, jaw tight. He thought of Mance, the way his eyes widened as the fire licked at his feet, the cries he was unable to silence before his arrow pierced his heart. 

          There was no such mercy for the princess. 

          “She saved my life,” he continued. “So I allowed her to leave the North and told her to never return, else I’d hang her for a murderer.” 

          “This is…” Sansa’s brow furrowed. “This is fucking _mad_.” 

          Jon blinked. That had to be the first time in his life he heard Sansa curse. It shocked a laugh out of him. “Trust me, we know.” 

          The flatness of his response drew a bark of laughter from her. “You’re going to do this. Going to ask Daenerys Targaryen to help us fight the dead. What if she refuses?” 

          “Then we fight with what we have.” 

          Sansa’s expression went tight, and he knew her thoughts turned to their position. The North had less than 10,000 men ready and able to fight, not counting the two thousand Valemen camped in and around Winterfell and Wintertown. 12,000 men against an army he said could easily number 100,000. An army that did not tire or sleep, made up of animals and giants and other creatures of the true North. One that was determined to kill them all. “Do you actually think she’ll believe anything you say?” 

          “Davos doesn’t want me to go any more than you do,” he said instead of answering. 

          “So, what do you intend to do? Ride to King’s Landing and tell Daenerys Targaryen that an army of dead men is marching on the Wall? She’ll say it’s a lie and have you arrested for treason.” 

          “Mayhap, but I have to do this, Sansa. I asked our lords to start searching their records for any mention of dragonglass. None of them have found anything, not even the Mountain Clans.” It was hell, getting a messenger to the more isolated Clans. Many were already completely snowed in, and poor Jarl wrote that he lost two toes before reaching the seat of Clan Wull. “A month later I get a letter from Dragonstone, inviting me to come South. Now, I’ve word from Sam, a man I trust with my own life, telling me that there’s enough dragonglass there to make all the weapons we need to fight the dead. If it’s not the gods then tell me what it is, because I don’t know.” 

          She said nothing, only settled heavily in the chair across from him, eyes on the scrolls. “Starks don’t last long south of the Neck, Jon.” The words were just above a whisper. “Or with Targaryens.” 

          He felt his resolve waver. “Good thing I’m not a Stark, then.” He tried to make it a joke but failed. How could he joke about their uncle strangling himself to death as their grandfather roasted alive in his own armor? Their Aunt Lyanna kidnapped and raped to death? 

          “You’re going to go, aren’t you?” She looked up at him, blue eyes shining. He knew well what that meant. Ramsay had all but stolen her tears. Now the only thing left was the memory of them. “It doesn’t matter what I say.” 

          Jon swallowed against the lump in his throat and went to kneel in front of her. She looked down at him, face ruddy. “Daenerys Targaryen is a queen, and only a king can convince a queen. You know that. We need her. We need allies, or the Night King will kill us all.” The knights of the Vale weren’t enough. Even if his sister somehow convinced Baelish to mobilize the entirety of the Vale, he didn’t think it would be enough men, and every one that fell would rise against them. “Daenerys Targaryen has three dragons and all the dragonglass we could ever need.” 

          “And what do you think she’ll want in return?” Sansa’s eyes searched his. “What if she asks you to bend the knee? What if she demands fealty? What will you do? You’ll be in King’s Landing, surrounded by her armies and allies.” Her eyes hardened. “Send a delegation instead. Ser Davos can speak for you and he knows ways into and out of the capital.” 

          Jon smiled at that. There was the Sansa he knew. “What if she doesn’t? Maester Aemon wrote to the Citadel all the time trying to get word of her. She frees slaves, tries to help people wherever she goes. She’s not a monster.” 

          “They never are.” 

          “The only other person I would trust with this is you.” He took one of her hands, curled into tight fists in her lap. “And I won’t risk you in King’s Landing.” Joffrey’s name didn’t feature as heavily as Ramsay’s in his sister’s nightmares, but he heard it enough to wish the boy back alive if only to kill him himself. He couldn’t ask her to return there. “I wouldn’t risk you at all, so it has to be me.” He searched her eyes, hoping for understanding, agreement, _something._

          She stared down at him for a long moment before her expression changed. The warmth left her eyes and the faint flush faded from her cheeks, leaving her face a pale mask. He could have sighed. This wasn’t his sister. This was the Lady of Winterfell. “When do you plan on telling the lords?” 

          He stood. “Later today. Ser Davos and I will start the journey to White Harbor tomorrow at dawn. It’ll give them time to complain.” 

          She nodded, gaze far away. “And if you don’t come back?” 

          “The North will follow you, Sansa, you know that,” he soothed. “But in case Lord Glover or anyone else decides to try anything I asked Maester Wolkan to draft a letter detailing the line of succession.” He waited until her eyes met his. “If anything happens to me, you are my heir. You are officially Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, Princess of Winter.” 

          Sansa’s mouth dropped open. “Jon…” 

          “You can do this. You are one of the strongest people I know. This is our home. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” 

          “I don’t want to be alone.” Her voice was small. 

          “You won’t be. Brienne and Podrick are here.” He turned to where his direwolf was laid out on the floor. “Ghost will be with you.” He smiled. “You can even put bows on him, but only while I’m gone.” 

          She gave him a smile. It was watery, but there. “I’ll make sure they’re grey.” 

* * *

          It was still odd weeks later for Tyrion, sitting in the Tower of the Hand. The second to last time he was here his father dismissed him again, preaching the necessity of ignoring the will of the individual when it came to the needs of the family. The last was when he killed him. Now his father was dead, his brother and sister may well be soon, and he was once again Hand. _You had it wrong, father,_ he thought, staring out the wide window behind his desk. _Never dismiss the wants of your children. How else are you to know when those wants are going to bury a quarrel in your guts?_

          With a shake of his head, he pulled himself from his maudlin thoughts. He had more important things to dwell on than patricide. There was a meeting with the Small Council in three hours, such as it was, and he hoped to impart something close to good news. So far, finding that news proved to be a snark hunt. 

          It was times like this that he truly hated being Hand. 

          He enjoyed the political intrigue of it. The piecing together and pulling apart of plots. The forcing lords to look at him with respect, not because of his father, Lord Paramount of the West, or his sister, Queen of the Realm, but for himself. For the mind he spent years cultivating during the day while drowning in debauchery at night (or vice versa). The lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms could call him anything they wished, but they could not deny his intelligence, not when he could smile at them and relay their plans back in perfect detail, down to the expected outcomes, well after he either let those plans go to fruition or foiled them before they bore results. 

          What he hated was sitting down and having to clean up someone else’s shit. And it appeared his idiot sister left a lot of it for him to shovel. 

          “How is it possible we are in a worse position than we were before I left?” he muttered, not for the first time. 

          Before the Battle of the Blackwater, he was Hand to a kingdom on the brink of financial collapse, the funds of the crown little more than smoke and mirrors, the throne sat by a madman a few steps shy of Aerys himself. He could see his father’s hand in the arranging of the capital’s finances. The dam he began building during his time as Hand to slow the crown’s spending was shored up considerably with Tyrell gold and a blanket of promises to the Iron Bank, but that dam was near to bursting now because of unmitigated stupidity. 

          The debts owed by the crown to the Faith were called in by the High Sparrow and his sister, like a fool, paid a good amount of them. Blood money, no doubt to make sure her zealot was doing her good work. At least until he turned on her. He imagined Cersei sitting in her cell, fuming over the tens of thousands of gold dragons she handed over to the Faith only for her attack dog to make her his next victim, his position solidified with the very funds that were supposed to buy his support. If she’d had any sense, she would have stormed the Sept with Lannister soldiers the moment she was released or bullied Tommen into it, at the very least to recover the gold. If any survived the blast it was melted and buried under tons of rubble, all but impossible to get to. 

          It might be worth it to try. 

          Thoughts of the High Sparrow turned his mind to the problem with what remained of his supporters. They were quite outspoken about the return of a Targaryen, dragons or no, and not in a way that was helpful. Without their leader, they were rudderless, though as far as Varys was able to discern their talk was coming to nothing. So far. Hungry bellies and cold feet had a way of turning the populace towards religion, and he had no wish to deal with a resurgence of the Sparrows, not with all the other problems they currently face. All of his solutions were the quick and brutal sort, and that was exactly what their Queen wanted to avoid. The soup and bread lines they established in their first days in the capital did much to spread goodwill towards Daenerys’s rule. If they were lucky the arrival of the High Septon and his underlings would do more to guide the people back on a less militant path. 

          If only other problems were so easily dealt with. 

          He spent days penning missives to all the lords of the realm as they traveled across the Narrows, politely demanding that they come to the capital to bend the knee. Those from the Crownlands were swiftly answered. Others were more tepid in their replies, with several of the lords of the northern Riverlands and Westerlands claiming hard winter snows meant they would have to wait to appear before their new queen. 

          He liked to think it was harsh weather that explained the lack of response from the North, but he promised he would at least attempt to stop lying to himself. 

          “The King in the North.” Tyrion poured himself a goblet of wine. 

          It was difficult, charting Jon Snow’s rise to power. Pycelle was diligent in keeping copies of the scrolls he received, at least the ones he deemed safe. Joer Mormont wrote to Joffrey, letting him know a great ranging was taking place in response to strange happenings at and above the Wall. Months later a rather cryptic missive from Maester Aemon spoke of things best left to myth and legend. There was the obligatory raven from Castle Black naming Snow the 998th Lord Commander following Mormont's death. Roose’s recently legitimized bastard Ramsay sent a short missive alerting the crown of his father’s tragic death at ‘the hands of their enemies’ and his ascension to Lord Paramount. 

          If Qyburn kept a record of the scrolls received by the rookery it wasn’t kept in the Maester’s Tower, or anywhere else the man haunted. There was no news from the North until Melissandre came to Dragonstone with her claim that Jon Snow was named King in the North by his bannermen. He’d hoped that his letter would inspire a response, but Winterfell remained silent. He hadn’t thought life would change Snow this much. The Jon Snow in his memory was curt, but the boy was never outright rude without just cause. 

          A soft knock broke Tyrion from his musings. “Come in,” he called, unrolling another scroll. 

          “You look especially troubled,” the Spider said as approached. 

          “You would be too if you were waiting on word from the largest of the Seven Kingdoms. A kingdom that didn’t even bother to respond to your first invitation.” He gestured for Varys to sit. “I suppose it’s too much to hope you have information that would explain why.” 

          “It has been difficult regaining control of my little birds.” Varys sat delicately. “Many broke off contact once they realized I was no longer the one their words reached. Others have simply disappeared. I’m afraid the ones in the North have been all but silenced.” 

          “But you do know something,” Tyrion pressed. “Jon Snow managed to escape the Watch with his head. Any idea how he did it?” Ned Stark’s bastard or not, Northerners were sticklers for that particular tradition. 

          “My little birds are unsure exactly of the how, but he did rise to the rank of Lord Commander before relinquishing his post.” Varys’s expression soured. “The Lady Melissandre was telling the truth on that score. 

          Tyrion watched the spymaster closely. Varys had never taken a liking to the Red Woman. He supposed he wouldn’t either if the one time he was exposed to magic his cock and balls were cut off. She didn’t do anything that she could be faulted for. She didn’t even attempt to curry favor with Daenerys. She mostly haunted the galleries when the queen held court, a red shadow easily dismissed. 

          He poured them both a goblet of wine. “Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. That was a quick rise.” To say the least. 

          “A bloody one.” Varys eyed his goblet. “There has been word of your wife, as well.” 

          “Sansa?” Tyrion set his wine down. He tried very hard not to think of Sansa aside from hoping that, wherever she was, she was well. The girl didn’t deserve half of what the world dealt her. 

          “After disappearing from King’s Landing, she reappeared at the Eyrie posing as Alayne Stone, natural daughter of Petyr Baelish.” 

          “Littlefinger.” He should have known. Every time the man looked at Sansa, Tyrion wanted to gouge his eyes out, and that was before they were married. He took a long drink of wine. “At least he has seen her safe.” When Varys said nothing, Tyrion glanced up. The Master of Whispers was staring at him with a look that bordered on pain. It was all the more shocking because he knew Varys only showed exactly what he meant to. “What?” 

          The other man let out a long breath. “Are you sure you want to know?” 

          Tyrion leaned forward. “Tell me _everything._ ” 

 

          Daenerys smiled as she watched her children play. 

          Drogon, Viserion, and Rhaegal did not much like King’s Landing. The city was too crowded, perhaps. Or maybe it was the smell that drove them away. They would fly over the Red Keep dutifully each day, their screeches drawing her to the galleries and towers to watch them dance among the clouds. After a few minutes or an hour, they would wheel back towards the bay. Back to Dragonstone. 

          In the first days after taking the city, Viserion and Rhaegel nested in the bailey outside the Tower of the Hand piled atop each other while Drogon took over the garden below Maegor’s Holdfast, settling his large bulk into the small space. Once they decided she was safe in her new home they began their routine. It was only when she received a raven from Ser Alestor that her suspicions on where exactly they flew were confirmed. 

          Their daily visits were more than just a balm for her soul. They were also a means for her people to grow used to her children. She knew they were frightening to others. Drogon was fierce, and there were times when he gave even her pause, but she knew he would never hurt her. Rhaegal was not nearly as wild, but even he had his moments. Viserion was the sweetest of them, her gentle child, quicker to shy away from an unwanted hand than to snap. She wanted the people of King’s Landing to feel, if not at ease with her children, then at least to know that they would never cause harm without due cause. 

          So far, she had no angry farmers coming to her demanding recompense for stolen sheep or cattle, though there was a rumor of the half-charred bones of some great beast found on the beaches to the north. No lords claiming their fields were raised by dragonfire. 

          No burned children. 

          _Tomorrow,_ she promised herself as Missandei wove her hair into a collection of complicated braids. Tomorrow she would walk down to the beach and wait for Drogon. It would do her good, to be free of this place. 

          “Are you well, Your Grace?” Missandei asked. 

          Daenerys heaved in a breath. “Thinking on better things.” 

          Missandei’s thin fingers stopped their work. “You miss them.” 

          Daenerys stood from the small table set on the balcony and entered her chambers. The royal apartments were not as lavish as those in Mereen. In comparison to the Great Pyramid, they were…quaint was perhaps the best word. Smaller, certainly. “I cannot ride Drogon whenever I wish,” she said briskly as she ran a hand over the iron-grey overdress laid out on her bed. Thick, blood-red scrollwork wound its way up both sides of the front, the closest she’d come to wearing her House colors since landing in Westeros. The pattern repeated on the rounded collar of her silk underdress. 

          “Forgive me, Your Grace, but you are a queen.” Missandei swept up the heavy wool and helped her into it with ease. “A queen can do whatever she likes.” 

          She busied herself with the line of buttons that began just below her breastbone. If only it were so easy. 

          It was a sentiment she found herself revisiting twenty minutes later. 

          “If you don’t mind my asking, my dear… why is Cersei still alive?” 

          Daenerys fought to keep her smile from freezing. When Olenna and Ellaria asked her for an audience, she had an idea on the subject, which was why she chose to have this meeting in her private sitting room and not in the throne room. 

          Missandei continued to pour wine into Ellaria’s cup, though Daenerys didn’t miss the way her hand tightened on the handle of the pitcher. 

          “You promised us vengeance,” the Dornishwoman added, her expression calm but her eyes burning. “Fire and blood, the Spider said, and we’ve yet to see either.” 

          The queen looked between the two women. Olenna watched her expectantly, always assessing, while Ellaria picked up the etched goblet and examined her wine with practiced nonchalance. “I’m afraid I’ve been occupied, my ladies,” she answered. “Repairing the damage done to the kingdoms has taken a considerable amount of my time.” 

          “Yet you’ve had time to create a Small Council, organize a means to feed the people, even send to the Iron Bank,” Olenna waved a hand when Missandei offered her refreshment. “Surely you’ve had time for a beheading?” 

          Daenerys fought the urge to grind her teeth and gave her friend a polite dismissal. Her emissary to the Iron Bank was meant to remain secret, at least for the moment. “When Cersei Lannister dies it will be for the full accounting of her crimes, before the people of Westeros.” 

          “You mean to give the bitch a trial then?” 

          She turned to Ellaria. “I mean to show the Seven Kingdoms what Tywin’s golden daughter truly is.” When she looked back to Olenna there was a pensiveness in the older woman’s eyes. “She will pay for what she has done, to Dorne, Highgarden and to the Kingdoms as a whole. Tywin Lannister thought to install his daughter atop the corpse of my family, my ladies. His dynasty was built on the bodies of children, a fact he hoped his gold and influence would sweep away. It is time the poisoned fruit sown twenty years ago is brought to harvest.” She turned to Ellaria. “She will not escape justice, not this time.” 

          “And what was done to my family?” Olenna’s voice was strident. “My son? My grandson? My granddaughter?” 

          “Margaery Tyrell was the last Baratheon queen. A Baratheon queen twice over, from my understanding. I will see Cersei receive justice for her murder, my lady. She will receive justice for the murder of them all.” She stood. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have other appointments.” She turned to Ellaria. “Do you still refuse Dorne’s seat?” 

          The older woman scoffed. “That seat was Tywin’s sop to Doran’s pride. Cersei’s head mounted on the walls of Sunspear is all I need.” 

* * *

          Arianne Martell stood in silence as the port below Sunspear grew closer, worrying her thumb over a signet ring strung on a thin chain of Valyrian steel. When she was a child, the ring rested on the smallest finger of her father’s left hand. As he aged and his gout grew worse, the slender ring moved to a pouch he wore at his neck. There was a copy, indistinguishable from the original down to the tiny nicks in the gold and nearly as old kept at his desk in a small box inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. He once told her the ring was worn by Mors Martell himself, the final gift he made to Nymeria to seal their alliance. 

          With a grimace, she tucked the ring into her bodice. The journey from Norvos was both too fast and too slow for her liking, and now after over a month of travel, she was home. The Tower of the Sun, its golden dome set ablaze by the afternoon light a beacon that guided her way for hours. As the shores of her homeland came into focus the heartache she fought so long reached out and gripped her throat. For nine years she dreamed of this moment. Of coming home and seeing her father and brother, mayhap her uncle if the gods were kind. Dreamed of warm arms, the smell of amber and the lilting voice she so dearly missed telling her all was forgiven while she said the same. 

          This was not the homecoming she dreamed of. 

          She turned away from the sight and headed belowdecks in preparation for landfall, the Unsullied her mother purchased for her protection her constant shadow. When she was presented with the eunuch years ago still bitter from her father’s rejection, she named him Trystane, though the pale-haired, blue-eyed man looked nothing like her brother. Since hearing of her brother’s death she’d yet to rename him, so he’d taken to remaining close, always within earshot. 

          Kassori, the maid her mother insisted travel with her, bowed as she entered. “Mistress.” 

          “Is everything ready?” 

          The small girl bowed again. “I have packed everything, Mistress. Would you like me to check the room again?” 

          Arianne shook her head. The fine linens and pillows that once graced the bed were missing, as were the small items that were once lined along the porthole to catch the light and add some charm and comfort to her cabin. If the slave girl missed anything she would be surprised. She turned to the Unsullied. “Have you both thought on what I told you?” 

          “This one will stay with his Mistress,” the eunuch answered. 

          Kassori looked ready to cry. 

          She glanced between them. “Slavery is forbidden in Westeros; once we set foot on land, you are no longer obliged to follow any command I give. You may stay with me as you wish, but you will be paid for your time and service.” She knew the concept was foreign to them. Neither knew what it was to have control over their own fate. She should have insisted they remain in Essos, but her mother was adamant. 

          Arianne turned to her guard. “You will find a name for yourself,” she ordered, and he gave a sharp nod of assent. “Essosi, Westerosi… I don’t care. Inform me once you have.” Her eyes went to the slave collar around her maid’s throat. Kassori near had a fit when she first mentioned removing it in the early days of their journey. She would see to its removal later. 

          Her hand went to her shoulder where her hair usually fell, a nervous habit from childhood, but felt nothing. In her years in Essos, she never shaved her head in the Norvoshi custom, much to her mother’s consternation. Now her normally long, black locks were cut harshly at her nape. She wore ash in thick lines on her cheeks and chin, her bottom lip painted black in their fashion of mourning, her simple dress made of raw, unadorned white silk. Her mother only went as far as trading in her brightly colored velvets for pale pastels, her bottom lip the soft grey of half-mourning. The token measure sped Arianne’s desire to leave her mother’s home and return to Dorne, though she should have expected nothing better. Mellario of Norvos considered her husband dead long ago. 

          When the Vesarith docked, and she saw the crowd of noblemen waiting for her Arianne forced down the panic and pain that threatened to send her spiraling into darkness. She set one foot in front of the other, projecting strength with every step though she felt none of it. She was ruling Princess of Dorne now. Once, it was all she wanted. Nine years ago, it was the wedge that drove her away from her family and Westeros. It was a bitter draught, that this was how she claimed her birthright. 

          As she walked, she pushed the thoughts of her father and brother and everything that remained unsaid and undone between them away. Pressed them down until they were a sharp pain beneath her breast and the tears that threatened to spill over dried. She would not face her bannermen weeping like a child. She would face them with the fire of the sun blazoned on her family’s sigil and as the spear that strikes down those who dared raise their hand to those she loved. 

          “Princess Arianne,” one of the lords said as he bowed, the gathering behind him following suit as she stepped off the gangway. Her eyes drifted over them. The years added grey hairs and lines, but she recognized most of her father’s bannermen. With a start, she realized the one who spoke as her cousin Manfrey. The years carved more flesh from his already spare frame and made his sharp features hawkish, but she knew those warm, amber eyes almost as well as she knew her own. Lord Anders Yronwood, still tall and broad, the brown hair brushing his shoulders greyer than she remembered was to his right. Lady Larra Blackmont, regal as ever was next to Lady Alyse Ladybright. Lady Alyse was pale despite her golden skin, her honey-brown eyes red-rimmed. The young boy nearly a man draped in purple must be Edric Dayne, the current Lord of Starfall. He was little more than a babe the last time she saw him, crawling over her uncle and begging for tales of his travels. As far away from Lord Anders as he could be was Lord Franklyn Fowler of Skyreach, white salting the iron-grey of his hair and beard. 

          Her eyes drifted to a knight near the back of the gathering, one whose brown hair and blue eyes she remembered well. Another time she would have smiled at him. Perhaps teased Daemon about the beard he now wore to hide his youth, but she could not. Not when the bitter ache in her chest threatened to strangle her. “Rise, my Ladies, my Lords,” she ordered. She approached her cousin and hugged him, uncaring of the ash she left on his umber robes. His arms closed around her, and she allowed herself a moment to simply be the little girl who screamed as he carried her on his shoulders. 

          His hand settled on the back of her head. “Welcome home, ‘anne,” his whispered into her shorn locks. 

          She allowed herself that comfort for moments longer than she should before pulling away. “Lord Martell,” she said formally after stepping away. “It is good to see you again.” 

          “You as well, Princess.” His gaze drifted to the ship. “We expected you some time before now.” 

          “There was…difficulty in the crossing.” Rumors of a pirate fleet unlike any seen in a thousand years reaving settlements along the shore of the Disputed Lands forced them to sail around the far side of Lys, adding weeks to their journey. 

          “Princess, we’ve prepared a wheelhouse-” Lord Anders spoke behind her. 

          “I prefer to ride,” Arianne said quickly. “My servant Kassori will travel that way as she is afraid of horses.” She turned to Daemon Sand where he stood with servants in the livery of Sunspear. “I trust you will see to my effects, Ser Daemon.” He jumped at the sound of his name but recovered quickly with a bow. “Of course, Princess.” He moved to the gangplank and began giving orders to the men offloading her luggage. She knew the exact moment her countrymen caught sight of her Unsullied guard and Kassori. Lord Franklyn resembled the hawk of his sigil, eyes taking in the spear and short sword, hand moving to his own weapon, while Lady Blackmont frowned. 

          _“Mistress,”_ her guard said, stopping several feet behind her. She didn’t have to look to know Kassori trailed him, head no doubt bowed, hands folded neatly. 

          “The Unsullied is my guard, provided by Lady Mellario,” Arianne informed them, eyes settling on each of her lords until the tension in their shoulders eased. Manfrey only watched, his gaze missing nothing. “The girl behind him is my servant Kassori. They speak very little of the Common Tongue, so please be patient with them.” 

          It was Lord Anders who spoke first. “Princess, the laws of Westeros-” 

          “I know the laws concerning slaves, my lord. Both have been set free, or as free as I can make them, yet have chosen to stay in my service.” 

          She turned to her servants. _“Kassori, you will travel with my ladies,”_ she said in Valyrian, gesturing to the wheelhouse at the end of the dock. When the girl’s eyes widened, she gave her a comforting smile. _“It is that or by horse. My ladies are kind and will ask nothing of you.”_

          The girl bowed, her red hair falling in a wave over her shoulder. _“As you will, Mistress.”_

          Arianne turned to her Unsullied. _“You will ride with me?”_ She framed it as a question though she knew the answer. 

          _“As you will, Mistress,”_ he answered. 

          The journey from the docks to the Threefold Gates of Sunspear was silent, and she was grateful for it. It gave her a chance to drink in her home. The Dornish winter was mild, pleasant after the deep snows of Norvos and not nearly as humid as Volantis. The dun-colored buildings that spread to either side of the docks backed streets filled with people going about their daily lives. Dust, spices, and the smell of frying meat and bread were all heavy on the air, the smells as familiar to her as sun-baked tile. She reveled in the heavily accented Common that surrounded her on all sides, peppered with Rhoynish. Sunspear was not the carefully carved limestone of the High City filled with Valyrian. It was home in a way Norvos could never be. 

          The first of the great gates to the Old Palace loomed before them and iron groaned as the heavy portcullis raised. As a child, the construction of the gates fascinated her. Any invading army would have to breach the portcullis and pass under a ceiling pockmarked with murder holes through which arrows and boiling sand would rain for twenty feet before reaching an iron-bound door. Once that door was breached there was a bare courtyard a hundred feet across and another portcullis, door, courtyard, and gate, and then a third. No army had ever breached all three gates and taken the Old Palace. When Sunspear bent the knee to Daeron he’d only managed to breach two, and thousands of Targaryen soldiers died in the assault. When the final gate opened the gates of the palace were already flung wide. The courtyard of the Old Palace was not filled with people as she feared. There was Ricasso, waiting patiently near the central fountain with his cane, sightless eyes fixed on a point only he could see with a handful of servants. The clatter of hooves was almost deafening as their party drew to a halt. When she dismounted and approached his head turned slightly in her direction. 

          “Ricasso.” 

          His face split into a smile. “Princess Arianne,” he answered with a bow. 

          She wasted no more time on pleasantries and with a few short sentences, the men and women of the palace were about their duties. She trusted Ricasso to see to settling her luggage and situating Kassori with someone who knew at least a few words in Valyrian. 

          All too soon Arianne found herself striding through the halls of her childhood home, the lords and ladies who greeted her following as she made her way to her father’s solar, feet moving without thought or hesitation. When the doors opened it took everything she had to keep standing. 

          She knew her father spent more time in the Water Gardens in his last years, leaving much of the daily workings of Sunspear to Ricasso and Manfrey. The solar, which should have shown the most change, looked exactly as she remembered it. The placement of the furniture, the small curiosities her uncle bought from around the world, everything could have come from any of a thousand memories. She almost expected to see her father stepping from behind the screen that shielded a small bed he kept in the corner for when he needed rest and ask her where she’d been. 

          “Princess?” 

          Lady Alyse’s quiet question spurred her forward. “Have refreshments brought,” she said to the servant near the door as she passed. 

          As her people settled Arianne arranged her thoughts. Now that she’d stopped moving she felt out of place in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Off-center. She was a stray piece of undyed cloth in a colorful world. Her eyes went to her guard, stationed at the door, spear at the ready. He made her wonder what happened to Areoh’s ax and another wave of pain followed swiftly by anger surged through her. 

          “Do you have any news of Ellaria?” The woman wasn’t on her knees on the docks, so she wasn’t in Dorne, that much was certain. 

          “King’s Landing,” Lord Anders replied. “She returned from Mereen with Daenerys Targaryen and her fleet.” 

          “The Targaryen girl reclaimed the Iron Throne less than a fortnight ago,” Lord Anders told her. “She used Unsullied to take the Red Keep in the night.” 

          That gave Arianne pause. She’d heard of Daenerys Targaryen in Norvos. The woman who disrupted Slavers Bay. The Breaker of Chains who freed slaves and fed masters to her dragons. For over a year there was talk of little else. There was even a minor rebellion in the lower city; desperate slaves hoping the Breaker of Chains would save them who were brutally crushed by the bearded priests. “So, the Dragon Queen finally came to Westeros,” she mused. 

          There was a quiet satisfaction in Lord Franklyn’s eyes. “It is said her soldiers caught Cersei abed with the Kingslayer, and they made no secret of it among the servants. Tywin Lannister’s legacy is well ruined by his own children.” 

          “Orders came from Dragonstone some weeks ago, Princess,” Manfrey answered. “Demanding Dorne mobilize her armies and march for the Reach to join the Tyrell forces. A feint, it seems.” 

          “Houses Fowler, Mandwoody, and Blackmont sent a token force, Princess,” Lord Franklyn reported. Lady Blackmont bowed her head. “4,000 men in total. Just enough that any spies will report that Dorne amasses in the Prince’s Pass, but that is where we have held. We believe it enough to fool them into thinking Dorne stands with Ellaria.” 

          “She will stay with the Targaryen as long as she can,” Lady Alyse tapped her glass. “No doubt Ellaria thinks she will protect them from justice.” 

          Arianne scoffed. “No doubt she thinks there is no justice to be protected from. Ellaria has always been blind to what she doesn’t care for, and my uncle’s daughters follow in her footsteps.” She thought of Nymeria and how they would sneak into each other’s rooms when they were children and spin dreams of traveling the world together like her father. Her cousin was the first person she drank wine with; a bottle of Arbor gold snuck from the kitchens when they were twelve. 

          The memories of those days were poison, threatening to soften her resolve. She could not let nostalgia and tears make her waiver. She would feed her tears to the fire burning in her chest. It was the only way she could survive. “And Elia?” she asked. “Obella? Dorea and Loreza?” 

          “Here,” Manfrey answered. “Once the Water Gardens were retaken Elia asked that they return to Sunspear. Only she and Obella seem to have some idea as to what truly happened to Doran and Trystane. And before you ask.” He handed her a scroll. “This arrived from the Citadel.” 

          The wax used to seal the parchment was white and without a proper stamp, as would be used by an initiate. The message was simple and so much like her cousin it forced her to smile, if only for a moment: A bloodsnake, rendered in exquisite detail swallowing its own tail, and in the circle created by its body the spear and sun of House Martell. 

          Arianne set the parchment down and reached for a glass of water sweetened with berries. “How many followed Ellaria?” 

          “She was able to spread her poison to a good deal of the household guard, and those she could not turn she had killed or locked away and replaced with the few retainers of House Uller that were with her,” Lord Fowler’s voice was a low growl. “Her forces were rounded out by those borrowed from Sylva Santagar, though her father claims he had no knowledge, and I am inclined to believe him. Gerris Drinkwater and a handful of his companions.” At this Lord Yronwood growled. “Support from a bastard daughter of House Wade, possible assistance from Vaith, and Gerold Dayne.” 

          That gave her pause. “Gerold Dayne?” 

          “The Darkstar has been stripped of his lands and titles, Princess,” Edric said, voice breaking. “High Hermitage is once again under control of House Dayne of Starfall.” 

          _He is more viper than your uncle ever was, Arianne,_ her father’s words, spoken when she expressed interest in Gerold Dayne years ago, brought bile to her throat. She’d thought him overcautious, then. A father unwilling to let go of his daughter. Gerold was dangerous, but in a way she thought she could control. “And Gerold?” 

          “Fled,” Lord Yronwood said with a scowl. “He was holding the Water Gardens with what troops Ellaria called to her. They held the palace for long enough, but once the gates were breached, they scattered. The Darkstar was lost in the hills.” 

          Which meant he could be anywhere. She turned to Lady Alyse. “Set a bounty on Gerold Dayne, 1000 gold dragons for him to be returned to Sunspear alive.” 

          “It will be done, Princess.” the treasurer said with a nod. 

          “House Dayne will match your bounty,” Edric added quickly. “I cannot let this affront to my family name pass.” 

          Arianne smiled. “House Martell thanks you for your assistance, my Lord,” she said formally. “Know I do not hold you responsible for the actions of your cousin.” 

          There was a small knock at the door and three servants entered carrying trays of honeyed fruit, wine, and water. Once the trays were set down the princess waved them out of the room. “And the others?” 

          “Most of the soldiers died in the assault. Vaith denies any knowledge, though you will notice they are not here to greet you, Princess,” Lord Yronwood clenched his fist. “The soldiers who held the gates were Dornish, not sellswords or brigands. They had to come from somewhere. Gerris is alive and in chains at Yronwood, where he will remain until you have need of him.” 

          “Lord Santagar shipped his daughter north to marry,” Lady Alyse reported with a shudder. “From all reports, Lord Estermont is rather pleased with his bride.” 

          “I thought Aemon Estermont already married.” Arianne frowned. “And his son no more than fifteen.” 

          “Lord Eldon is rather pleased,” Alyse clarified. 

          Dear merciful Seven. Eldon Estermont was at least seventy years old. “And Lord Uller?” 

          “Will not renounce Ellaria,” Manfrey leaned back. “But he has sworn he will not protect her, either.” 

          “Now that you are here, Princess, Ellaria will not dare return to Dorne,” Lady Blackmont spoke for the first time, a grape held delicately between thumb and forefinger. “How do you propose we pry her out of the Red Keep?” 

          Arianne stood and walked past her father’s desk to the row of tall windows beyond. The courtyard below was bisected by a narrow fountain that ran along its width, potted palms standing sentinel at either end. Her eyes traced the cobalt, orange, and black tiles that ran along its sides. If she concentrated, she could feel the rough edges beneath her fingertips. 

          “Ellaria will not return to Dorne until she’s witnessed Cersei Lannister’s death. By then, she will have learned of my return, or of Dorne’s true allegiance.” She turned to her bannermen. “Lord Dayne, Lord Yronwood, Lady Blackmont. Your Princess has need of you.” 

* * *

          _My little birds say her screams could be heard throughout Winterfell some nights…_

          _Fed his stepmother and half-brother to his hounds…_

          Tyrion felt the wine in his stomach threaten to come back on him as he wandered the Red Keep. After Varys told him of what happened to Sansa he’d remained in the Tower of the Hand for long minutes attempting to purge the memory of his words with the accounts of the realm, but his mind refused to settle. His thoughts drifted to Sansa Stark. Sansa Lannister. To the girl who was marched into the Sept of Baelor just past her fourteenth nameday and handed to him with all the hubris Tywin and maliciousness Joffrey could conjure. She’d been terrified, he remembered; her pulse beating visibly in her throat as she walked to the altar in a dress no one but Cersei could have had commissioned for her. She didn’t even allow the girl a proper maiden cloak. 

          _Hunted girls for sport…_

____

          _Forced her to watch as servants were flayed…_

          _Sheets constantly stained with blood…_

          He felt his gorge rise at that particular bit of information. 

          He stopped to lean against a wall, his breath frozen in his lungs. “Damn you,” he whispered to the stones, though who he was cursing, he didn’t know. Ned Stark, for being such an abysmal player of the game that he lost his head? Joffrey for taking it? Himself, for never consummating their marriage and leaving her open to such a terrible fate? Baelish, for selling such a sweet child to a monster for his own gain? Ramsay Snow, for being a monster in the first place? Every man and woman in Winterfell, for never coming to her aid? The gods themselves, for doing nothing as girls like Sansa were abused? 

          “Are you well, Lord Tyrion?” 

          Tyrion pushed himself away from the wall. Missandei was standing nearby, concern etched on her face. “I’m fine,” he said quickly. 

          She took a careful step closer. “Forgive me, my Lord, but you do not look fine.” 

          He smiled despite himself. Missandei had the gentlest ways of calling people on their horseshit. “I suppose that’s because I am not,” he confessed with a wilted smile. “But there is nothing to be done about it now.” 

          “Perhaps our Queen could be of some help?” 

          “No,” he said quickly. “I’m afraid that would only complicate matters.” Catastrophically. “I will be well, Missandei.” He gathered himself. “Will the queen be joining the Small Council meeting this afternoon?” 

          Her expression said she wasn’t fooled by his change of subject. “She will be there, Lord Hand.” 

          “Good.” 

          The young woman gave him a final, concerned look before walking away. No doubt Daenerys would know of his strange behavior before long, and the next time they found themselves alone he would have to give an explanation. 

          _She is safe now,_ he reminded himself as he walked to his rooms. Ramsay Bolton is dead, and through some miracle, Jon Snow holds the North. He doubted Jon would let any harm come to his sister, not now that they’d found each other after so long. Not any harm he could understand. 

          _My little birds also sing that Petyr Baelish is in Winterfell. He was sent with the Vale forces as Lord Robyn’s envoy._

          That was a safer thought. A thought that sunk the bitter pain at his inability to protect yet another wife beneath burning anger. Petyr Baelish was a thorn that found itself in his side far too often. First his poisoned words to Lady Catelyn that started the damned war to begin with, blaming him for the assassination attempt on Bran Stark. What kind of fool did the woman take him for, to give a catspaw a dagger that a blind man could identify to kill the son of a high lord? Only an idiot like Joffrey or someone making a statement would hand an assassin something that could be traced back to him. 

          Then there was what Tyrion was sure was Littlefinger’s work that saw Ned Stark lose his head. There was no way to prove it, though who else benefited from a recently widowed Catelyn Stark? Varys claimed he wanted Ned Stark at the Wall, and Cersei for all her foolishness had to know beheading a Lord Paramount was the fastest way to start a war. Executing Rickard Stark and his heir was the beginning of the end for the Targaryens. The snake had also stolen what had to be millions of dragons from the crown over the years as Master of Coin, though it would take a legion of men from the Iron Bank a decade to decipher the Crown accounts, and even then Tyrion was sure the bastard had somehow managed to accomplish the whole blasted crime legally, probably while warning Robert all the while. 

          Tyrion thought to his brother’s sword. The weapon was gaudy enough that it could be mistaken for nothing but a Lannister weapon. He was going to hire someone to plunge it into Baelish’s heart and fuck anyone who had a word to say about it. 

* * *

          “Thank you, my lords, my ladies, for gathering on such short notice,” Jon started once the doors closed behind Lady Barbrey. If he didn’t know better, he would say the woman made a point of being the last to enter any meeting. “I’m sure by now you’ve all heard Daenerys Targaryen landed at Dragonstone just over a month past.” 

          “Some of us faster than others,” Hubert Wull grumbled, his bass voice carrying through the room as he glared at the collection of Vale lords near the center of the Hall. As always, Baelish wasn’t among them, and Jon fought the urge to search him out. 

          “Shortly after her arrival, I received an invitation.” Jon held up the small scroll. “Penned by Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen, inviting me to Dragonstone. An invitation for the North to join with the Targaryen forces and together depose Cersei. I know it came from Tyrion,” he added before someone could challenge his words. “There is no mistaking it. We had some small acquaintance while we traveled to the Wall.” 

          Murmurs rose in a wave around him, and he half-turned to Sansa. His sister kept her eyes on the lords. No doubt she’d already found Littlefinger in the crowd and was gauging his reaction. 

          Lord Ashwell stood; his small form almost lost in the sea of people around him. “Have you responded, my King?” 

          Jon glanced down. “I didn’t have time to. Before I could send a response to her offer, another raven arrived from the south, this one from the Red Keep itself.” He heaved in a breath and leveled his gaze. “Daenerys Targaryen has taken the Iron Throne.” 

          Bedlam erupted at his words, as Jon knew it would. The majority were in sheer denial. How could a slip of a girl with no army possibly defeat Cersei Lannister? The rest were speculating on what she planned to do now that she had the capital. Was there any resistance to this foreign invader from the Southron kingdoms? Was she moving her armies North? Still others declared it a Lannister plot. An invention of the false southern queen to set them cowering from a threat made of Children’s tales and shadows. He allowed his lords a moment to panic before he raised his voice to be heard over them. 

          “The raven comes from the rookery of King’s Landing itself, my lords.” He turned to Wolkan, who nodded his assent. “Daenerys Targaryen holds the Iron Throne, and she has for at least a sennight if the raven flew immediately.” 

          “Could she have taken King’s Landing so quickly?” Lord Harclay asked. 

          “She could if she had dragons,” Jon answered flatly. “In his letter, Tyrion spoke of three of them, each large enough to carry a rider.” 

          Lord Royce stood slowly. “Your Grace,-” 

          “How else do you propose she took the capital in less than a month, my lord?” Jon challenged before he could build up steam. “Tyrion Lannister wrote to me shortly after she arrived at Dragonstone. He wrote of her Unsullied, her Dothraki, and her dragons, and asked me to ally with her. Apparently, she didn’t need the North to help her defeat Cersei.” His expression was grim. “We can sit here and hold our hands over our ears like children, denying the truth, or we can face what is happening. The rumors are true. Daenerys has dragons and is on our shores with an army tens of thousands strong.” 

          “And now that she has the Iron Throne, she’ll turn her eye to us,” Sansa interjected calmly. “The kingdoms of the south are hanging on by a thread, my lords. Daenerys Targaryen has the Reach, the Iron Islands, and Dorne. The Riverlands can offer no resistance, nor can the Stormlands.” She turned to Lord Royce before flitting her eyes to Baelish. “Forgive me, my lords, but the Vale cannot defend the Bloody Gate against an enemy that attacks from the air, you know that. The Westerlands may bow to Lord Tyrion as Tywin’s last remaining son to save themselves being destroyed by dragonfire.” 

          “No southern army has ever conquered the North,” Lord Glover countered hotly. “Moat Cailin-” 

          “Moat Calin means nothing when a dragon can turn the towers to slag,” Jon interrupted. 

          Glover reared back. “Aegon never did.” 

          “Aye, because he didn’t have to. Torrhen brought his armies into the Riverlands. Once he saw Harrenhall, he knew the truth. Balerion would destroy what was left of the Moat and allow Aegon’s ground forces to march north unhindered. Any army he fielded would be burned to ash, any lord that refused to bend would see his castle burned over his head.” 

          Lady Barbrey’s cold, steady voice carried from her place near the center of the room. “With Daenerys Targaryen crowned queen of the Seven Kingdoms she can declare the North in open rebellion. The South won’t care what she does to us.” 

          “She could burn every keep and castle from Last Hearth to Moat Cailin and leave us without shelter and starving at the beginning of winter, and there will be those who say it nothing but what we deserve.” This came from Lord Ryswell. “She could use us as a lesson to her southern kingdoms of what happens to those who defy her.” 

          “If she’s that mad then she’ll kill us either way,” Lord Flint was pale, but his eyes were hard. “Better we die on our feet like Northmen, than grovel at the feet of a tyrant.” 

          There were too many shouts of approval for Flint’s suggestion. “Aye, the men will die on their feet,” Jon said slowly, voice a near growl. “And what of our women? Our children? What happens to the rest of the North once her fathers and brothers are gone?” He was pleased to see some of the lords looked sheepish now, though there were still too many mulish faces for his liking. “The North knows nothing of Daenerys Targaryen.” 

          “Do you, my King?” Petyr Baelish’s voice cut through the silence. 

          Jon ground his teeth. What was Baelish playing at? “I know something,” he admitted. “Maester Aemon of Castle Black was once Aemon Targaryen.” That revelation was shocking to many. “Daenerys was his last living kin, and once he had news of her, he intreated the Citadel to send him any scrap of information they heard and would have those brothers who knew their letters read to him. She conquered Slaver’s Bay and freed the slaves there. She’s fought to keep them free of those who would put them back in chains. It is rumored that Ser Barristan Selmy went to her after he was dismissed by the pretender Joffrey Waters and that even now he serves as her Queensguard.” 

          Sansa spoke into the silence. “Those do not sound the actions of a madwoman or a tyrant to me, my lords.” 

          Lord Royce stood. “With respect, Your Grace, my Lady, these may sound noble actions, but you do not remember the Mad King. I remember him all too well. In his youth, Aerys was a great man, capable of great things, but that changed. I’m afraid that blood will out. A Targaryen cannot be trusted, nor can a Lannister.” Grumbles of assent followed his declaration. 

          Jon fixed his lords with a cold stare. “Four months ago, you, my lords and ladies, declared me your king in this very hall. I didn’t ask for it, I never planned for it, but I am your king. I will protect the North the best way I know how. We’ve too great an enemy and as we stand, no allies. Whatever else the Knight King is he is death, for everyone and everything. There are three things we know of that can kill his soldiers: Valyrian steel, dragon glass, and fire.” He held up Sam’s missive. “I’ve another letter, from Samwell Tarly. He was my brother in the Night’s Watch, a man I trust as much as anyone in this world. One of my lasts acts as Lord Commander was to send him to the Citadel to study as a maester for the Watch. There, he’s discovered proof that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of dragonglass.” He handed the rolled parchment to Lord Glover. 

          Jon steeled himself. “Tomorrow, Ser Davos and I will travel to White Harbor and then on to King’s Landing, to meet with Daenerys Targaryen.” 

          The eruption his words caused wasn’t unexpected. Most of the lords were on their feet, shouting over each other. Some were decrying his plan, claiming they could outlast any Targaryen and her foreign armies. That the Wall has protected them from the Northern threat and would continue to do so. A few were arguing in his favor, but their voices were overpowered by the rest. When it seemed Lord Glover and Lord Harclay were close to coming to blows he’d had enough. 

          “My lords,” Jon said softly. 

          Ghost stood from his lazy sprawl in front of the high table with a growling snarl that echoed off the stone walls. It silenced everyone and sent more than one lord stumbling back into their seats, eyes wide. It took long moments before his lords were once again seated. 

          “My lords,” he repeated, coming to stand next to his direwolf. Ghost calmed immediately and sat, though his eyes remained fixed on the lords, his ears pricked. “This is not a subject that is up for discussion. I am your king, or did you not declare me such, not four months past?” He didn’t give them a chance to answer. “I called you here to inform you of my decision to travel South and my reasoning, not debate its merits.” He gave them each a hard stare. “I have as little desire to leave the North as you have to see me go, that I promise you, but there is no other choice.” 

          Lord Glover stood. “We called your brother king. Then he rode south and lost his kingdom.” 

          Jon’s jaw tightened. “My brother was already south,” he replied, voice deadly quiet. “He was betrayed by those he trusted. Those who sat at his table and called him king while plotting to shove a knife in his back.” He stepped closer, his hand going to the hilt of his dagger. “I believed the North purged of such rats, my lord, or do they still scurry about my kingdom?” 

          “Winter is here, Your Grace,” Lyanna Mormont’s voice cut through thick quiet, and he stepped away before turning to face her. “We need the King in the North _in_ the North.” 

          “And I have no wish to leave it, Lady Mormont, that I promise you.” Jon squared his shoulders. “Winter is here, but I do not leave the North leaderless. Sansa Stark,” he emphasized her last name as he turned to his sister, “Will rule in my name until my return.” 

          Sansa sat at the high table, face relaxed and eyes clear as she looked out over the crowd. They could have been a flock of hens clucking at each other over spilled grain for all the care or concern she expressed at this turn of events. One day she would have to teach him that trick. He gave her the smallest of nods. 

          “And if you don’t return?” Lord Royce asked haughtily. 

          Jon’s eyes met the Vale lord’s eyes unflinchingly. “Then she shall be Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, Lord Royce.” 

* * *

          Navar didn’t like the south. 

          He knew the Northerners would claim the Wall wasn’t the south, but they’d never lived above it. Didn’t know the glaciers that moved slow through the land and carved their paths, or the way the Old Gods painted the sky in their lights in the deepest darkness. They didn’t know the true North and the freedom it held. For them, anything below a place called the Neck was the south; a place of a thing called ‘swamps’ and creatures that sounded like they were conjured from the blackest nightmares. His people fished the cold tumbles of the Milkwater, and until they were forced to, he’d had no desire to see the Wall or what was beyond it. 

          When Tormund came to their settlement and asked for men to guard the Crow castles, he was one of the first to volunteer. He had no lover or children to think of. Greta, Skali, and Yrin were all dead. Greta died on the march to Hardhome, her lungs too weak from illness to handle the long march, while Skali and Yrin both died defending the Free Folk as they ran from the dead to the ships that brought them south. He was one of the first to be loaded as Jon Snow put those who couldn’t fight (the old, the sick, women with babes at the breast and children) over those who could. 

          A part of him hated King Crow for that. 

          Still, when Tormund called, he answered. His left arm didn’t work as well as it once did, not after a dead man stuck his blade through his shoulder, but he was still one of the best trackers of the Falls Clan, and a better shot than most with a bow. 

          He stared down at the true North from the top of the Wall and felt a heart-deep ache that nearly stole his breath. He wanted more than anything to go through the gates and return home. To the place where his mother and his mother’s mother walked, but it wasn’t to be. The Crows were under strict orders that the gates were to remain closed to any but Free Folk fleeing south. A few came every few days; groups as small as two and as big as twenty, half-starved and mad from the cold. Once, the commander of the garrison let through a herder with the entirety of his flock. It was a sight to see; near a thousand reindeer running through the narrow passage in the Wall and herded through the castle to the lands below. The Crows kept twenty to slaughter, but it was a small price to pay to see the beasts running free. 

          It eased his heart, knowing that something of the true North besides her people would survive. 

          He turned from the land of his birth and faced south. He could still see them; a dark blob on the white of the landscape, ever moving. Morag was afraid to herd them farther south without help, and he was the last of his clan as far as he knew. The great herders lived farther North and most, and they were the first struck down when the dead woke in truth. 

          “He’s still there, is he?” 

          Tormund Giantsbane spoke in the Old Tongue when they were alone amongst the Free Folk, and the comfort of his words did more to warm him than the brazier at his back. “Boy doesn’t have the help he needs to go farther.” 

          The Tall Talker nodded. “Sent a raven to Winterfell and a runner to the settlement. Maybe there’s one among the Free Folk there who knows the ways of his people.” He sounded sad as if he knew there would be no one. 

          “A goatherd might work.” The gods knew goats were ornery things on their better days. If a man or woman could herd goats, mayhap they could herd reindeer. The creatures were larger but far gentler in his experience. “Think we’ll get to taste juustoleipa again before we die?” 

          Tormund chuckled loud enough to let him know he thought him foolish. “You want to go out and milk one?” 

          To taste something of home before he died? “Tell me which is calving, and I’ll bring back all that I can.” 

          The red-haired man shook his head with a short laugh. “There was news from another castle. The one to the far west. Forty giants and their mammoths made it to the Wall and passed south a week past.” His smile was lantern bright. “Wun Wun wasn’t the last.” 

          Navar didn’t smile, but his heart did. Another part of their home that might survive the winter. “Any word on where they’ll make camp?” 

          “Might be they come here. Might be they go to the mountains.” Tormund looked down. “The people can’t stay here for much longer, anyway.” 

          The Free Folk spoke of it amongst themselves. King Crow may have given them the lands called the Gift, but they were still too close to the Wall. There were many who wanted to start walking, see how far their feet could take them before the dead broke through and they were slaughtered like pigs. Tormund and the Elders were able to keep them in place, but it couldn’t last. 

          “There’s a place far south,” Giantsbane said the words slow, as if tasting them. “A castle that belongs to the Red Wolf, but she don’t want it. Belonged to the Flayer.” 

          Navar spat. They all heard of the Flayer. Of what he did, of what he threatened. The girl was right to feed him to his own dogs. He would have made sure they started at his feet. A place that housed such a man, bred him? It would be ill-omened. 

          “He’s offered it to us for the winter. A place to stay and weather the storms. He says it’s got good strong walls.” 

          “And after the winter, if we live that long?” 

          Tormund’s smile stretched to a grimace. “The Red Wolf wants it torn down, stone by stone. Doesn’t mean we can’t build something better.” 

          Navar said nothing. Tormund trusted King Crow. Trusted his words and his promises. They hadn’t been drowned while at sea or killed once they crossed the Wall, so he was willing to believe if only a little. “You really think he’ll let us stay south of the Wall?” 

          “He hasn’t said no.” 

          “And you haven’t asked.” 

          Tormund turned to True North. “Boy was with us too long.” There was laughter in his voice and something like pride. “Should have seen talk about the southern king, the one who killed Mance. Would have licked his boots before he came to us. He’s not a kneeler anymore, no matter what he says.” 

          “Helps being the one they all kneel to.” 

          “But he hasn’t asked us. And he won’t.” 

          Navar shook his head. “How far south is this place he’s offering us?” 

* * *

          “Will we be safe here?” 

          “For a time.” 

          Bran turned to the symbols carved into the stone around them. He could remember _not you, a Raven a thousand thousand years before the First Men came to this place_ when they were carved. The songs sung as the spells were laid that made this a place of rest, of healing. It took years, stone wielded against stone until the symbols were etched deep and true. His gaze went to his arm. The Night King’s mark on him broke those protections, melted them away, and a part of him keened at the loss. 

          Meera crowded closer to their small fire, more for light than heat, here. The hot spring gave enough warmth that they were almost sweltering in their first hour, warmer than they’d been in weeks. “How is your arm?” 

          “It will keep.” 

          He could feel the darkness in the purple bruise, contained for now, but ever reaching. Two magics doing battle within him. It was a pestilence that would kill him eventually, but for tonight he would live. 

          Meera busied herself with their fire, setting the auroch’s stomach filled with water above the flames and adding the dried meat and gnarled tubers Benjen gave them before he left, all while pretending not to watch him. They were still miles above the Wall, but he could feel its magic pulsing in his chest. A second heart beating counterpoint to his own. 

          With a sigh, Bran reached out and drew the blade Benjen gave him across his lap. Meera carried it during their travels, though she’d had no need to use it yet. The Night King and his army were far to the east, moving south from Hardhome. What few Others patrolled this far west were as unable to approach this close to the Wall as Benjen was. 

          The sword was shorter than he would have imagined, the blade slender. He pulled it an inch from the scabbard, revealing the pale shine of Valyrian steel. “The Raven gave it to me,” Benjen said when he asked about the strange sword in the first days after their flight from the Three-Eyed Raven’s cave. “Said to give it to you when the time was right. That you knew who it belonged to.” 

          Bran slid the sword back into the scabbard and leaned back against the warm stone. He’d wondered why the Raven was so against his seeing what happened in Dorne. Why he pulled him away from that memory, of all the places in the past they traveled. 

          Bran’s hand crept to the side, slid over a pale outcropping, white as snow. Stone, to one who didn’t know, but he did now. Weirwood could burrow through near anything, given enough time. 

          _It was cold._

          _Every muscle ached, the cold settling deep into his bones now that he was unable to travel above it. His horse died days ago, felled by a pair of direwolves. He was able to control the one, difficult though she was. Too many years had passed since he needed to practice such things, for what use were a thousand eyes at Castle Black? The second tore the garron’s throat out while he was wrestling the first under control. His shoulder burned from the impact of being tossed to the ground onto a boulder hidden beneath the thick snow just close enough to the surface. His bow survived the impact, at least._ v 

          _Still, he couldn’t stop._

          _Aemon feared he was mad. That the curse that swam in their blood found him at last. He could have told his nephew that they were all mad, everyone in the world, it was only how that madness showed itself. Some were mad for power, some for coin, some for love and some for flesh but it would out one way or another. Some of their family simply stopped fighting it, or rather, didn’t think they should fight it at all._

          _The week before Aemon tried to explain his need away. There were reports of it in the notes from the previous maesters; men who looked to the Haunted Forest, claiming that they were being pulled to the lands beyond. Snow Madness, they called it. It took some brothers immediately, while others could man the Wall for years before it started. Some eventually came back from it, shook off the whispers and desire as a craving for the freedom they knew they’d never have again. Others went ranging one day and never returned. Whether they were found by Wildlings and killed or claimed by the elements no one knew, but few if any ever made it back to the Night’s Watch._

          _Brynden was many things, some things from legend, but he was not mad. Not yet. He hoped Aemon remembered that when he failed to return from this ranging._

          A caw drew his attention to the west, a flash of fire on the horizon, and he turned. The snow here was thick, sunk near to his knees, but he continued on. 

          _“I remember this.”_

          _Bran started._

          _“I was two months beyond the Wall,” Brynden continued, and Bran realized he was talking to him. “Wandered past the headwaters of the Antler River, following, always following.” He pulled the hood of his cloak tighter. The glare of the sun off the snow was unrelenting. “The dreams turned me west, towards the Fist. The damn direwolves took my horse and I thought I’d die out here. That for once my dreams lied to me.” It was summer but the lands this far beyond the Wall never really thawed. It was just below freezing, but still freezing, and his body was old._

          _“Then I saw it.” He looked up again, and the splash of red on the horizon was a canopy of weirwood leaves crowning a tree so large ten men with joined hands couldn’t circle it. A child sat at its base, draped in furs. He blinked and the image wavered. No, not a child, but something that wanted him to think it was a child._

          _“We’ve been waiting,” the specter said, remaining where it sat, head tilted._

          _“I’ve been walking,” he answered. “And I’ve no time for games.”_

          _The girl gave him a look that didn’t belong on the face of any child and the illusion melted away. The pale skin turned a color somewhere between mud and green leaves, the furs faded like early morning mist, the pale eyes darkened to a bright gold-green. What was left was something that looked nothing like a human child save for its stature._

          “Bran!” 

          He jerked awake. Meera was leaning over him, eyes frantic. “I’m all right, Meera,” he said, hoping to calm her. He knew how she hated when he went away, but there was so much for him to learn and no teacher to guide him. “Brynden,” he whispered. He knew the name, knew who the Raven had been before. Brynden Rivers, son of Aegon the Unworthy. _How many eyes does Lord Bloodraven have?_ “A thousand eyes and one.” 

          He turned to Meera. She was near shaking. 

          “It’s been hours, Bran,” she whispered. “I’ve been trying to wake you, but you…” 

          His eyes went around the cave. The scant winter light from the entrance high above them was gone. It was just past noonday when we came here, he thought, drawn by Bloodraven’s memories of rangings past. The fire was still burning, but their makeshift pot was hung to the side. How long had he been walking with Brynden? 

          “I’m sorry.” He swallowed. “Is the food ready?” 

          The panic didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened. “Bran,” she said slowly. “I don’t know what you’re saying.” 

          “What do you…” he trailed off, focused on his words. They made sense in his mind, but the shape and sound of them were wrong. Valyrian, he thought. He was speaking Valyrian, fluidly, as if he’d spoken the language his entire life. 

          Hadn’t he? He could remember learning it at his father’s knee. Remembered the ease with which the syllables slid off the tongue before learning the clumsy, harsh tones of Common… 

          _No,_ he thought. _That wasn’t you._ Maester Luwin despaired teaching any of Ned Stark’s children the language. Sansa tried, the better to understand the songs and poems she so dearly loved, but her understanding was rudimentary at best. 

          “I’m sorry, Meera,” he said slowly, his tongue thick in his mouth. “I was… away.” 

          She let out a gasping sob, and for a moment he was unsure if she would hit him or embrace him. _Like Shiera,_ the fond thought passed through him before he could contain it. “You can’t do that, Bran,” her voice was firm as a peak of the Frost Fangs. 

          “I know, I…” he trailed off. His eyes went to their cook pot. “I’m hungry,” the words slipped out, inelegant and demanding, and he cursed himself for seven kinds of fools. 

          She shook her head, brown curls bouncing before she stood and collected his portion of their dinner. For a moment he wasn’t in a cave above the Wall. He was in a place far warmer and more humid than any he could remember, watching as a brown-haired girl chased her older brother through the thick undergrowth that all but swallowed the squat keep they called home. 

          _“Jo!” Meera called as she ran after her brother, her legs so much shorter._

          _Jojeen smiled as he turned, then his eyes caught on Bran. Recognition sparked in them, and for the barest of moments they were far older than a boy of nine’s should be._

          “Bran.” 

          “You skinned your knee.” 

          Meera stared at him, confusion clouding her eyes. “What?” 

          _You skinned your knee that day, chasing Jojeen through the courtyard,_ he wanted to say. _Your mother dressed the wound with hag’s moss and lizard lion bile, and to this day the smell makes you lightheaded._ “Nothing.” He took the half-empty auroch’s stomach. The jerky inside was soft, the water and tubers boiled to something resembling a thickened broth. Without spices or salt, it was plain fair, but it would keep them alive another day. “I’m sorry if I frightened you before,” he said after several mouthfuls. 

          Meera’s jaw clenched. He’d grown familiar with her in their travels. She wanted to yell at him, but she knew yelling would do no good. What was happening to him wasn’t something she could control. He feared it wasn’t something he could, either. Worse, yelling might bring danger down on them. Animals that walked on four legs were the least of their troubles. “Eat,” she ordered. 

          Bran plucked out a tuber and chewed on it, his eyes on Dark Sister. 

* * *

          The heat of the long summer had finally broken in Meereen. The hazes that made the city look half-drowned from a distance gone as if they never were. A month ago, the Purple Graces lit the large braziers at the top of their temple, the flames dancing indigo and white in the high winds sweeping down over the foothills from the Dothraki Sea; the first sign that winter had finally come. A week later a chill rain fell, washing away the heavy layer of dust that covered every surface of the city. The mornings and evenings were cool now, and dew wet the fields and terraces that surrounded the great city nearly every morning. 

          Barristan Selmy stared out at the metropolis below, fingertips tracing the scattering of new scars on his back and side. Just twisting to touch some of them was a challenge, his body unused to the movement. He stared down at his stomach, where the jut of his hip was far too visible. He was not a vain man by nature; war and time had taken such things from him long before the first hairs on his head lost their color, but he’d taken pride in his health. For years the only member of the Kingsguard that could keep up with him in the yards was Ser Jaime. His reputation was such that none of Joffrey’s Kingsguard dared challenge him as he left King’s Landing. To draw steel in the presence of a king was a death sentence, but he’d done so and faced no reprisal, either in the Red Keep or as he left the city. Barristan Selmy was a man few would dare cross swords with. 

          Now he could hardly take the few steps needed to cross his room without a hitch developing in his side. He glared at the ornate cane that stood next to his bed that the healers insisted he use. It was made from ironwood imported from Westeros, the curved handle a sheaf of wheat in remembrance of his house. Most days it remained against the wall in defiance of their orders. The first time he reached for it if only to steady himself as he stood, he hung his head. 

          It was the first time he could remember feeling old. 

          “I see they haven’t killed you yet.” 

          Barristan grimaced, reached for his tunic and pulled it over his head. Daario Naharis had a habit of entering where he was not wanted and commenting when he was not asked. It was a wonder the Queen tolerated him as long as she did. “You say that every time you appear, Naharis.” 

          “Consider it my way of showing gratitude that you still live.” 

          “It would take more than a group of mercenaries armed with daggers to kill me.” He sighed in relief when the shirt cleared his shoulders and fell down his back and chest. It was loose, a testament to the mass he lost recovering in the temple of the Blue Graces. 

          “Once, maybe.” The sellsword sauntered in. “They say you’ve recovered well.” 

          “As long as it’s taken, I should have.” He spent nearly a year in the care of the Blue Graces, all but forbidden from leaving their temple. He had no memory of the first month. He lay insensate, broths and potions poured down his throat while the healers stitched his body back together. The month after that was a blur of pain and voices. The first time he opened his eyes, aware of himself and his surroundings, he tried to rise and screamed at the pain that ripped through his body, a sound that brought an army of the blue shrouded women to his bedside. 

          The second time Daenerys was there, staring down at him like he was a miracle made flesh. He learned that only Grey Worm survived the ambush, though the younger man’s recovery was far easier than his own. She translated for the Blue Grace that explained how close he came to death, and how careful he would have to be to not succumb to the Stranger still. He commended their healing skills; he’d known younger men who died of lesser injuries, but he balked at their recommendation that he remain at the temple until his recovery was complete, away from his queen. 

          _“You will,” Daenerys finally said, voice brooking no argument. “I almost lost you in that alley. I’ll not lose you to an infection that could be avoided.”_

          _“My Queen-”_

          _“Your Queen orders you to remain here until the Graces deem you well enough to be released.” She pressed a hand to his shoulder. “If you are seen outside the temple before then I’ll have the Unsullied carry you back and tie you to your bed.”_

          “What word of the city?” 

          Daario settled into a chair. “Meereen thrives. Her ports call ships from all over the known world. Her people are happy and fed. The rains have come, washing away the heat.” There was something in his voice, a knowledge that set Barristan’s teeth on edge. 

          “And the rest of the Bay?” 

          The younger man’s smile was sharp. “Learning the new way of things.” 

          When Daenerys left with the bulk of her army, Yunkai and Astapor again tried to reclaim Meereen, believing the city undefended without the queen’s dragons. They attempted to enlist the help of New Ghis, not knowing that the Spider already sent emissaries to the island with a simple message: the Dragon Queen was not interested in the goings-on of the small nation, and that would continue so long as they did not stand with her enemies. Volantis refused to send more ships and men to be lost. Qarth saw more profit in trade of goods than in fighting for cities that already lost twice to the same woman. 

          When the Dothraki left by Daenerys and the sellsword companies hired by Naharis poured south and retook Yunkai and then Astapor the battles were bloody but swift. Those who thought to return the cities to slavery, whether former masters or former slaves, were put to death. Councils based on those in Meereen were established, their authority backed by steel, not words and promises. Those who wished to follow Daario back to Meereen were allowed, and he began sending trains of food to Astapor to relieve the worst of the famine. The horrors that Naharis reported seeing on entering the cities would have made their queen weep; highborn children stolen to be made into Unsullied in Astapor, their mothers driven into slave corrals and raped en masse. Bodies left rotting in the streets, so starved they were hardly recognizable as human. Some looked to have been butchered for what meat remained on their bones. Any slave who remained in the Yunkish countryside was reclaimed, scourged and branded for daring to steal from their masters, and all women and girls of childbearing age forced to breed in an attempt to recoup the number of slaves released. 

          Once the fighting was done Daario made the cities a promise: more uprisings would not be tolerated. The next time Astapor or Yunkai rose in defiance to the rule of the Dragon Queen would be the last time those cities existed. For every man, woman, or child who was collared, a hundred heads would roll. Qarth boasted of its Garden of Bones, Naharis gave his oath to create a forest. 

          The fate of Emperor Cleon of Astapor, the Butcher King, was something only whispered about. 

          _“She would not be pleased,” Barristan told him when he visited after his return._

          _“No, but Yunkai and Astapor are free once more.” The man had his feet kicked up on a table, a cup of wine in hand. Barristan’s side ached just thinking about sitting in such a manner. “Their people are recovering, and the threat of rebellion is over.”_

          _“For now.”_

          _“For always.” Daario dropped his feet and leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t know how things are done in Westeros, Barristan the Bold, but in Essos, when a man gives his word, those words mean something. When Daario Naharis of the Second Sons gives his word, it is law. Our queen tasked me with holding Meereen. If I have to butcher Astapor into dust to save it, I will. If Yunkai must become a memory to save it, I will make sure the only ones who live there are the ghosts who defied me. There are two peoples in this world, old man: the butchers and the meat. I made my choice a long time ago.”_

          _Barristan never liked Daario Naharis. From the moment the man joined their side it was clear his objective was to worm his way into their queen’s good graces and then her bed. He was a man of no learning and brutal extremes, as like to laugh and drink with a man as he was to slit his throat, and he treated both things with the same reverence a drunkard would a bawdy song._

          _Since Daenerys charged him with the defense of Meereen, Daario had changed. The braggart was still there; the sellsword who boasted of his victories and claimed a different woman each night, but there was something else. There was steel to him now that was hidden before. Daenerys gave him something solid to fight for, something more than his next meal or his next bag of coin, and he did so with the same fervor he did everything else. Barristan had known kings and princes who approached their duty with less zeal._

          _Perhaps Daario had the right of it. Perhaps this was the only way. Daenerys trusted Astapor and Yunkai not once, but twice, and both times those cities threw that trust back in her face. She wanted to change their way of life, and those who stood to lose power or privilege would drive themselves to ruin if they thought a hint of it could be salvaged._

          _Barristan reached for the second cup Daario always poured but he never drank from, fighting back a wince as something pulled in his lower back. The sellsword watched him with hooded eyes._

          _“To Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Meereen, Yunkai, and Astapor,” Barristan said, raising his cup._

          _Naharis followed suit. “To Daenerys, Queen of the Bay of Dragons.”_

          Barristan had to admit that Naharis’s way had the desired result. The threat of annihilation seemed to hold things in check. Those who survived Cleon’s butchery found themselves working harder to maintain the peace that Daenerys initially created. Both cities, though grudgingly, allowed the Windblown to patrol them and make sure slavery was not reinstituted. Messengers ran along the coast keeping Meereen constantly appraised on the state of Yunkai and Astapor. Any hint of insurrection, and Daario would fulfill his promise.

          “Oh, and this came for you.” Daario held out a scroll sealed with a three-headed dragon. 

          Barristan snatched the scroll and eagerly read the words, hands trembling. Daenerys had taken King’s Landing, aided by many of the Crownland lords. The usurper Cersei Lannister was in custody along with her brother. It was done, then. 

          She was queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

          _If the Graces give you leave, there is nothing that would please me more than for you to join me in Westeros. I need your council now more than ever, and I would not dare appoint anyone to my Queensguard without you. I have come home, my friend. It is time you did the same._

          “My dear Ser Barristan, are those actual tears?” 

          He looked up. Daario watched him with an expression somewhere between concern and fascination. 

          When Daenerys spoke of her plans to leave Meereen for Westeros his heart cracked in two. Half of it soared; Rhaegar’s sister, the Last Dragon, was finally claiming her birthright. The other plummeted to the seven hells, for he wouldn’t be there when she needed him most. He would be abed in a city thousands of miles away, unable to protect or advise her. The only thing that gave him comfort was her decision to leave Daario behind. “Tears of joy, that I will no longer be subjected to your presence,” he said gruffly. “Our queen requests I journey to Westeros and join her in the capital.” 

          Some of the teasing light left Daario’s eyes. “Does she.” 

          “Did she send you no word?”

          “Word of her victory. Our queen has claimed her Iron Throne, the thing she has chased day and night since before the moment I met her.” He slouched. “Even now her Dothraki and Unsullied work to spread her rule throughout Westeros.”

          Selmy watched the sellsword as he focused his attention on a tray of dates and honeyed balls of crushed almonds and raisins. His posture was too loose to be natural, his expression one of false disinterest. He never trusted the sellsword. In truth, he was relieved when Daenerys decided to leave him behind. Daario had no place in Westeros and his presence would only serve as a distraction and a hindrance. He knew Naharis would balk at the order. After all, there were few positions that granted more power than being the queen’s lover, but Barristan never counted on this.

          He never considered the boy might have actually fallen for her.

          _For Daenerys or the Dragon Queen,_ he wondered. It was easy to be enveloped by her presence; it took him less than a week of knowing her to be convinced he made the right choice in seeking her out. Daenerys Targaryen burned brightly, her commitment, her passion for her people and causes brilliant and clear for all to see, but there was another side to her. The side that giggled like a child when he recounted tales of Rhaegar as a boy. That would grow sad at times when they were walking through Meereen and would slip her rings to small children when she thought no one was watching. Whose eyes misted for the barest of moments when she had the opportunity to hold babes.

          “She trusts you with keeping her people safe,” Barristan reminded him. “That is an honor she would not give lightly.”

          Daario plucked a date from the tray at his bedside. “It is a great honor. One that keeps me from her side. After all, the Queen of Westeros cannot be seen with a common sellsword. We are good enough to fuck, not to love.”

          “It has always been that way.” 

          Naharis gave him a pointed look.

          Barristan couldn’t help but chuckle. “Young men all think old men sprouted that way from the ground. I wasn’t any better once. Daenerys knows her duty to her people, and only if she is blessed by the gods will that be marrying a man she loves. More like, she will marry a high lord to secure an alliance.”

          “Which is why all you nobles are shit.” Daario shook his head. “I would gut the man who told me how to marry, who to marry.”

          “Everything has its price.” Laughing indigo eyes, the color so deep they were almost purple fringed with thick lashes black as soot filled his memory. “That is part of being highborn.” 

          A slow smile spread over the younger man’s face. “And who was the lovely maid that stole the heart of Barristan Selmy?”

          _A maid who did not deserve her fate. A woman who put the beauty of all others to shame. Who loved a man forced to marry another, and whose heart broke under the strain of loss and war._ “A memory of what might have been, Naharis, nothing more. The Kingsguard take vows to take no wife and father no children.” 

          The sellsword shook his head again. “Like I said, Selmy. Nobles are shit.”

          He wasn't half wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> This chapter draws dialogue fairly liberally from the seasons, so if you recognize something it most likely isn't mine and I won't take credit for it.  
> I know I resurrected Selmy, but I just couldn't leave him dead. That was D&D's first major mistake, and since I didn't feel like going back and rewriting the series from season five, I tried to make as plausible an explanation for his absence outside of him just being dead as I could.
> 
> Slightly random and probably stupid question. When readers leave reviews without signing in, do you know when I've responded back? 
> 
> [ House Mollen ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Mollen)  
> [ House Stout ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Stout)  
> Sansa specifying that the bows she puts on Ghost will be grey is a reference to the [custom](https://asoiaf.westeros.org/index.php?/topic/98103-bastard-sigils/) of bastards taking the colors of their House and inverting them. Hence, Jon Snow's sigil would be a white wolf on a grey background instead of a grey wolf on white.  
> [ Arianne Martell ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Arianne_Martell)  
> [ Norvos ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Norvos)  
> [ Mellario of Norvos ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Mellario)  
> [ Manfrey Martell ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Manfrey_Martell)  
> [ Lord Anders Yronwood ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Anders_Yronwood)  
> [ Lady Lara Blackmount](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Larra_Blackmont)  
> [ Lady Alyse Ladybright ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Alyse_Ladybright)  
> [ Lord Edric Dayne ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Edric_Dayne)  
> [ Lord Franklyn Fowler ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Franklyn_Fowler)  
> [ Daemon Sand ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Daemon_Sand)  
> [Sunspear ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Sunspear)  
> [ Ricasso ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Ricasso)  
> [ Sand Snakes ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Sand_Snakes) Funny, how in the show not a single one of the Sand Snakes shown were actually supposed to be one of Ellaria's daughters. SMDH.  
> [ Gerold Dayne ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Gerold_Dayne)  
> [ High Hermitage ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/High_Hermitage)  
> [ House Vaith ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Vaith)  
> [ House Santagar ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Santagar)  
> [ Lord Eldon Estermont ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Eldon_Estermont)  
> [ Gerris Drinkwater ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Gerris_Drinkwater)  
> [ House Uller ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Uller)  
> [ Juustoleipa ](https://www.cheese.com/juustoleipa/)  
> [ Dreadfort ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Dreadfort)  
> [ Brynden Rivers](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Brynden_Rivers)  
> [ Dark Sister ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Dark_Sister)  
> [ Shiera Seastar ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Shiera_Seastar)  
> [ Blue Graces ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Blue_Graces)  
> [ New Ghis ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/New_Ghis)  
> [ Cleon of Astapor ](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Cleon)  
> Next chapter title is The Lion and the Dragon :)


	13. The Lion and the Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All!
> 
> A new section was added to Chapter 11 from Ser Jorah's POV in case you're interested.
> 
> This chapter discusses child abuse and murder. Nothing graphic, and only a mention, but please be aware.

        _The Freys were dead._

        _Edmure stared at the bodies decorating the walls of Riverrun, already stiff from the cold. What armor they once wore was scattered in the main bailey leaving most in thin woolen shirts and trousers. They looked like nothing so much as a macabre collection of windchimes thudding dully against the dark stone. His father didn’t believe in such theatrics. Hoster Tully would see a man hanged or beheaded for his crimes, but the bodies were never put on display. “A man has paid his debt with his life,” his father would say. “Let him have his peace in death.”_

        _His father should have put Walder Frey’s head on a spike the first time the upjumped toll-taker showed he had no loyalty, but that was not the Tully way._

        _Hoster worked his entire life to create alliances to strengthen their position without relying on bloodshed. House Tully was known for its leadership and light hand when it came to their vassals. They were not the wealthiest House of the region, despite beings Lords of the Trident, nor could any Tully ancestor claim to have been one of the many river kings. Edmyn Tully was granted the title of Lord Paramount for declaring for the Targaryens when Aegon and his sisters began their conquest._

        _“Please! Please! Mercy, m’lord! Mercy!”_

        _The screams of the Frey soldier cut short as he was tossed from the walls, the snap of his neck undeniable. Edmure swallowed the bile that crept up his throat and turned away._

        _The land around Riverrun was blanketed with snow churned dark and muddy by the movement of men and horses. War had come to Riverrun, and he prayed it never would again in his lifetime. For a moment he let himself wonder. What would Riverrun look like, had things turned out differently? Had Rhaegar not kidnapped Lyanna Stark, Catelyn would have married Brandon as planned. Ned Stark would have been free to marry the Dayne woman instead of bringing their bastard back to Winterfell. Lysa might have married one of the river lords instead of a man near forty years her senior. Perhaps Doran Martell would not have denied his suit for Arianne and even now he would be in Sunspear. Robert Baratheon never would have sat on the throne and Cersei would have married whatever man her father could find for her. He imagined the field he stood on blanketed with fresh-fallen snow, undisturbed but for the path to the Rivergate, the chimneys of Smallpeak smoking in the distance instead of cracked and broken ruins._

        _The world he conjured was fair and bright, spun on air and shattered on the next breath that clouded from his lungs. None of those things came to pass and dwelling on might-have-been benefited no one. The Rebellion happened as it did, and he was here now. His father was dead, along with his sisters and uncle. He was the last Tully, the last to carry on their name. He would not have their memory be of betrayal by their bannermen, slaughtered at his own wedding. He forced himself to stare at the bodies of the near sixty men who decorated the walls. He listened and watched as each of them dropped and hoped the message was clear to those who survived._

        _This was what happened when you challenged House Tully._

        _Edmure remained frozen, staring at the gates of his family home. The last time he was here, he abandoned his duty to his Uncle for his duty to a son who may or may not exist and a wife he knew for all of one night. He’d hoped Brynden would surrender, would know the cause was lost, but in his heart he knew the truth: Brynden Tully was a fighter, and he would fight for Riverrun until there was no breath in his body._

        _He was almost surprised when Jaime Lannister’s promise to return him to his family went unfulfilled. A Lannister always paid his debts and seeing his wife and child was a small price to pay for surrendering the last bastion of the Riverlands not under Lannister control. When he was carted back to the Twins and thrown into the room he occupied for the better part of his imprisonment he resigned himself to never know if the Kingslayer spoke true._

        _“Lord Edmure?”_

        _He turned. Lord Jonos Bracken stared at him, concern deepening the lines on his face. He was wiped free of blood, though some appeared to have frozen to his beard. Edmure never liked Lord Bracken, in truth. The man was too proud, too keen to redress every slight and far too prickly when it came to anything to do with Lord Blackwood, but he’d answered the call of his Lord Paramount._

        _“Yes?”_

        _Lord Bracken stood at attention. “Riverrun is secure, my Lord. What do you plan to do with the Frey women?”_

        _Edmure frowned. “How many?”_

        _“Four, I believe.”_

        _He took a breath and the cold air stung his lungs._ They are Rosalyn’s kin, _he reminded himself as he looked at the walls again. Their husbands already paid for their treachery. “See them to the Lady’s Chambers and have them guarded by men you trust, men who will treat them gently.”_

        _Lord Bracken bowed._

        _The thought of prisoners turned his mind to another matter. “Lord Blackwood, is he here?”_

        _Lord Blackwood nodded, his features stony. The man was seldom away from his side. “This way, Lord Tully.”_

        _Edmure followed Lord Blackwood through the gates. The main bailey was in shambles; bodies lay where they fell in the bloody snow. Two carts filled with the dead waited to take the corpses beyond the walls to be burned and a group of soldiers from other Houses sat huddled in the center of the yard. They looked up as he passed, only to look away when they recognized the blue and red of his cloak, the Tully trout on his armor._

        _It was easy to gain access to Riverrun. Janos Bracken arrived with two hundred men claiming to be sent by the Queen to reinforce the castle in case Tully loyalists attempted to retake it in the wake of Edmure’s escape. Word of Blackwood’s defiance to Cersei’s claim was well known throughout the Riverlands, and the enmity between House Blackwood and House Bracken was well known by all. Less well known was the death of Lord Bracken’s natural son Harry at the hands of the Lannisters or the rape of Alysanne, Lord Janos’s youngest daughter, by the Mountain. For all his hatred of the Blackwoods, Bracken was more than willing to form an alliance if it meant taking their land back from Lannister bootlickers._

        _Once the gates opened the fight was easy, much easier than when the Lannisters overwhelmed his uncle’s forces. The Freys weren’t expecting a fight and few were in more than mail and vambraces when Lord Blackwood put his sword through a soldier’s throat. Over a third of their forces were in the castle itself, and the fighting was bloody and swift. The Freys knew they lost, and surrendered, hoping for mercy._

        _Edmure gave them the same mercy they gave his men at the Twins._

        _They walked through the castle, and he frowned at the changes. He’d ordered all signs of his wife’s family taken down, not wanting to see evidence of their occupation. The great tapestries that detailed the triumphs of House Tully were missing from the long entry hall, revealing the paneled wood beneath. Piles of cloth sat in corners, Frey banners, he thought, though he did not stop to learn the truth. He would order them burned with the corpses._

        _There were other signs that were not so easily removed. The large Tully trout that rightly should have curved over the doors to the great hall was chipped away, leaving a silhouette of pale stone in its place. Edmure stared up at the desecration for long moments. He walked beneath the symbol of his house for every feast and celebration. Ran beneath it when playing with the servants as a child. Marched proudly beneath it when he was formally recognized as Edmure Tully, Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, his uncle at his side._

        _Inside the hall, a contingent of men stood around two figures. Tywin Frey inherited the green eyes of his namesake, though his hair was a blonde so dark it bordered on brown. The Lannister blood from his grandmother and the Darry blood of his mother did much to overpower the pinched, narrow features so common to his father’s blood. The boy stood tall before him, shaking so hard the ends of his hair were in constant motion. The Twins embossed on his too-large leather armor were scuffed, though the boy was young yet to have seen a battle. Borrowed from an older squire, no doubt._

        _Edmure knelt so he could look the child in the eye. He’d inherited the Darry height as well. “Do you know who I am, boy?” he asked gently._

        _Tywin’s eyes skirted over the trout on his gorget before darting to Lord Blackwood. “M’lord?”_

        _Edmure turned his head back to him. “I’m Edmure Tully.”_

        _The boy lost what little color he had. “M…m’lord…”_

        _“And you’re Tywin Frey, grandson of Eammon and Genna Frey.” He stood. “See that he’s placed with the women.”_

        _Tywin went without protest, no doubt happy to be sent among his family after witnessing the slaughter of his bannermen. That done, Edmure turned to the second figure._

        _Lyonel Frey glared at him from his knees. The man’s armor was immaculate, a testament to the distance he kept from any battle of note, even the one to hold Riverrun. With the exception of a split lip and a bruise that formed on his jaw he could have been prepared to attend a tourney._

        _“You weren’t at the Red Wedding,” Edmure mused._

        _Frey spat blood at his feet. “No.”_

        _“He still fought with the Lannisters,” Blackwood kneed the man in the back._

        _Lannisters who raped and pillaged the Riverlands until there was little left. Who conspired with that twisted cunt Walder Frey to take everything from his family. Edmure’s fist tightened around the hilt of his sword. “See him to the dungeons.”_

        “I still believe it would be in our best interest to side with King Jon, my lord,” Lord Mallister’s words were low and careful and drew him from his memories. “The girl could be as mad as her father and brother." 

        Edmure huddled further into his cloak. They were still half a day’s ride from Brindlewood, and he hoped they made the village before sundown. He’d had a variation of this conversation near every day since they started their journey to King’s Landing. “She’s asked for her lords and ladies to come to court, so to court we go. You can return to Seagard if the thought is daunting, Lord Mallister.” 

       Lord Piper chuckled softly, and Jason turned away with a scowl. 

       Their company was large. The heads of Houses Mallister, Mooton, and Piper, each accompanied by a contingent of knights, thirty in all traveled down the King’s Road. The weather was better this far south, the cold less biting. They last saw snow a week before while they still traveled the River Road before turning south. 

        “Mallister is right to be concerned,” Lord Clement agreed. “It is said the girl has three fully grown dragons.” 

        Days after reclaiming Riverrun the missive from the Dragon Queen arrived, politely demanding that he and his lords travel to the capital to bend the knee. Edmure’s first instinct was to ignore the summons and prepare to lay siege to the Westerlands with the reconstituted Riverland army, but it was Maester Vyman who cautioned him to respond. “The Targaryen queen has the might of the Reach and Dorne behind her, Lord Edmure. The Reach has remained well clear of the fighting, the harvest of its fields and orchards uninterrupted,” the white-haired maester counseled him in the same tone he used when Edmure was a boy. 

        “It isn’t her dragons that concerns me. Does the North have grain, Lord Piper? Cattle? Fruits?” Edmure shook his head. “The North will have a hard-enough time this winter feeding its own, and the Riverlands have been bled near dry. Daenerys Targaryen has the Reach behind her and Dorne; two kingdoms spared the worst of the war.”

        Edmure knew his lords were against his plan, but there was little choice. Tywin Lannister cut a path of blood and death through the Riverlands during the War of Five Kings that would have pleased Maegor. Once the war itself was over the Lannister soldiers left to enforce the peace of King Joffrey, then King Tommen were little more than brigands, continuing the slaughter. What few of their people who survived needed supplies to last the winter: food, forage for their animals, things that he hoped the Dragon Queen would provide if only he asked the right way. 

        _I have no pride left, my lords, save for that of my people._ Not after years of being held captive by his goodfamily, not after the murder of his sister and uncle. 

        He had yet to discover why he was freed the night Walder Frey and his brood met their end. His lords believed that the Freys were killed on the orders of Ned’s bastard, but why send an assassin and not see to securing the true heir to the Riverlands? Why leave him to make his way from the Twins alone? He didn’t even know if the girl who set him free was the one responsible or a maid who sympathized with his plight. 

        _Edmure tucked himself further into the corner of his room when the door opened, face turned to the wall. It wasn’t the normal time for the table scraps they called his supper, so it was likely Black Walder for his normal taunts. He learned in the first months of his captivity that responding only earned him a beating. It was better to let whatever filth the Frey wanted to say pass his thin lips without comment until he grew bored with his lack of response._

        _“Edmure Tully.”_

        _He turned sharply. That wasn’t a voice he recognized._

        _A girl stood in his doorway, or he thought it was a girl based on the sound of the voice. He wasn’t allowed candles. Not since the first time he tried to burn the infernal castle to the ground, and the light from the hall was blinding after hours of darkness. “Who are you?”_

        _“No one.”_

        _She stood in the doorway a moment more before walking away, leaving it wide open._

        _Edmure stared at the doorway for what felt like an eternity before he unfolded himself and crept forward, wary as an animal, ears straining for the slightest hint of leather scraping against armor. His fingers crept around the jamb, prepared for pain, a yell, something, but there was nothing. He dared peek into the hall and saw the guard that usually stood at his door laid out, blood spreading in a dark pool from the ruin of his neck._

        _He wasted no time, dragging the corpse into his room and stripping him of his weapons and armor. He wiped the blood from the leather gambeson as well as he was able and took up the ridiculous hat the male Freys insisted on wearing. It wasn’t the best of disguises, but from a distance, it might fool the rest of his cursed in-laws into thinking he was one of them. That done, he pulled down a moth-eaten tapestry and threw it over the dark blood staining the floor and set a chair atop it._

        _He made his way as swiftly as he could through the Frey stronghold. The twins looked majestic from a distance, but the interior of the southern castle was cramped and twisting; a rabbit-warren designed to confound those who didn’t know their way. Shrill cries echoed up one of the staircases and he changed direction, moving down, always down._

        _After an eternity he found himself outside. There was chaos in the main yard; men and boys calling for horses, many simply pulling a steed from the stables and riding away. He followed the walls of the keep to an empty yard that seemed to service the kitchens. There was a small stable there, and he saddled the best horse he could find, shoving as many blankets as he could into the saddlebags with shaking hands. The gates were swung wide allowing men to enter and leave, so he sped through them, uncaring of those who had to dash out of his way. The space between his shoulders itched until the walls of the Twins were lost in the darkness._

        _Horseback was too dangerous a way to travel, so after following the river for ten miles he stripped the animal, sank the tack into the Green Fork, and set it loose. The boat he found was small, something a man would use to travel less than a mile downriver, but he used every lesson his father and Uncle Brynden taught him, navigating the river like the trout on their banner. The first night he spent drifting, buried under his mound of stolen blankets, staring up at the stars. The last time he saw stars was the night of his wedding and the cold air made them shimmer like diamonds._

        _Closer to shore the river was already clogged with ice, and he wondered just how long he’d been held captive. Years, he knew, but how many he could not guess. Long enough for Rosalyn to bear their son. Long enough for him to forget what it felt like to be outside, alone._

        _He traveled that way for five days; sleeping beneath the boat during the day, navigating the river by night. It was easier than he liked. There should have been villages and holdfasts crowded on the banks, but those that he passed were burnt out, the remains of homes reaching ruined fingers towards the starry night. There was no one to see a lone boat floating downriver, no one attempted to wade into the frigid water to bring it ashore._

        _He was half-frozen and rail-thin when he finally arrived at Raventree Hall. The servants turned him away as a filthy beggar the first day, but he wasn’t deterred. It took two days of appearing at the gates every morning before a knight finally recognized the pale, red-haired man as the rightful heir to the Riverlands._

        _Lord Tytos embraced him like a long-lost son when he was presented, before offering him the hospitality of his hall and ushering him into a well-appointed chamber. The water of his bath was too hot after years spent living with basins of cold water and harsh soap, but he forced himself to sit in it until the water cooled before scrubbing himself till his skin tingled. The clothing he was given was far too large on his spare frame, too smooth, and slid uncomfortably against his skin. He may have looked more like himself, but he didn’t feel himself._

        _Blackwood was full of information. The news of the years (Four. Four years spent locked away while the world turned on) made cold numbness spread through his chest. He laughed himself sick when he learned that Jon Snow had retaken Winterfell and was King in the North. Laughed until bile crawled its way up his throat and laughed once there was nothing but the bitter taste of it on his tongue._ Oh, Cat, _he thought._ You always feared he would take Robb’s birthright, and the gods made it so. 

        Edmure turned his attention back to the road. They were 10 days out from the capital. 10 days from his petition to have his family returned to him in exchange for the Frey’s being held at Riverrun. He thought of Rosalyn’s sweet face, the way she blushed so prettily when he kissed her and wondered at which of them their son favored. 

* * *

        “You can’t avoid it forever.” 

        Daenerys stared at her Hand. “I have more than enough to deal with, trying to set the Kingdoms to rights. Cersei Lannister can wait.” 

        A sigh struggled to work its way through her. Her day was going well before her meeting with the Small Council. More nobles arrived from the Crownlands and Reach, all willing and eager to swear their allegiance to House Targaryen. Lord Edmure of House Tully, thought lost in the Riverlands after the massacre at the Twins, arrived in the early hours of the afternoon with the lords of Houses Mallister, Mooton, and Piper. The men were travel-weary but insisted on bending the knee before being seen to quarters befitting their station. 

        The skeleton Small Council Daenerys assembled was there when she arrived. Lord Celtigar, her Master of Coin, sat like a bitter statue in his turquoise doublet, while Lord Darkwood, Master of Laws, was a dark shadow to his right in his ever-present black. Varys hovered near the window overlooking the city. Grey Worm arrived with her and took his usual position at her back. 

        “The longer you wait to pass judgment, the more unrest there will be.” 

        Days after she took the capital a rumor began to work its way through the populace. A rumor that Cersei somehow escaped the Black Cells, or perhaps managed to escape the capital before it fell and was making her way to Casterly Rock to raise an army brought with Lannister gold. Half of the populace were terrified the woman would return and rain wildfire down on them. She already issued a royal proclamation stating that Cersei was being held in the Red Keep as per her station and that the rumor was a falsehood, but it persisted, growing more fantastical by the day. Just the day before Varys’s little birds reported that it now stated that the Golden Company was on their way across the Narrows, ready to sack King’s Landing. 

        Daenerys wished she could name her Hand a liar, but she knew better. “You don’t care that your sister and brother will likely be executed at the end of any trial?” 

        Tyrion heaved a breath. “Losing Jaime would be…regrettable. He is a good man beneath everything, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. Cersei… My sister is a monster,” the words were said in a rush. “She always has been. Her only redeeming quality was her love for her children, and they are gone.” 

        “Lord Tyrion is right, Your Grace,” Lord Celtigar leaned back in his chair. “We can delay no longer. The people want justice.” 

        “Justice?” She stood and walked to the window of the Small Council chamber. Once, it was behind the throne room, she was told before Cersei had it moved to this tower. King’s Landing spread before her, a sprawl of buildings large and small. “The people of King’s Landing have a peculiar meaning of the word.” They cheered when Eddard Stark lost his head. Rioted when the boy he sought to keep from the throne starved and abused them and cheered when Joffrey, a madman who had babes slaughtered in the streets, claimed victory at the Battle of the Blackwater. _Changeable_ was what Varys called them: a captive audience to the game of thrones, tossed one way and another at the whims of lords and kings. These were the people her Small Council wanted to give justice. 

        Lord Darkwood fixed his eyes on her. “Perhaps it would be better to slit the Lannister woman’s throat and be done with her, Your Grace. She deserves no better.” 

        Daenerys turned back to her council. Celtigar, Varys, and Darkwood all wore the same looks of tacit agreement. Tyrion’s face was impassive, but she thought she could see sadness behind his eyes. She knew well how it felt to be unable to save a sibling from themselves “Cersei Lannister is my prisoner,” she said slowly. “I will not tolerate the execution of prisoners without a proper trial.” She waved a hand. “Any word on how long until Lord Paxter arrives with the High Septon and his flock?” 

        “His last raven had him out from Tarth, Your Grace,” Celtigar answered. “Another fortnight, if the winds are with them.” 

        She turned to Tyrion. “And did we ever receive word from…Tarth?” 

        “A short answer from Lord Selwyn, affirming you as queen, Your Grace.” Her Hand ducked his head. 

        “Do you know this Lord Selwyn?” she pressed. 

        “The Evenstar?” He swallowed. “No. I’ve had occasion to meet his daughter. She is…singular, Your Grace.” 

        She couldn’t discern his tone or expression. She would have called it a mixture of confusion and amusement, but neither quite fit. “And do either plan on coming to court?” 

        “Lord Tarth has made arrangements to travel to King’s Landing, according to my little birds,” Varys informed her. “His daughter and heir, Brienne is currently in the North. At Winterfell, serving as the sworn sword of Sansa Stark.” 

        “A sworn sword? Is she a knight?” She’d never heard of a female knight. She knew there were warrior women in Eastern Essos. The Maidens of Bayasabhad, Samyriana, and Kayakayanaya were legendary for their prowess in battle. She could still remember the warrior woman she saw in Vaes Dothrak. Two were tall and bronze-skinned while the third had skin the color of fresh honey, bodies hardened from training and war in strange contrast to the delicate ruby studs that decorated their cheeks. 

        Varys blinked. “A knight? No. But quite adept at swordplay, from all rumors.” 

        “She swore herself to Catelyn Stark before the end of the war,” Tyrion added. “At least, that’s what Jaime said when she escorted him to King’s Landing.” He cut his eyes to the other members of the Council. “When Lady Stark died, she planned to give her service to her daughters. I understand my brother outfitted Lady Brienne with armor and a sword to facilitate her quest to find them.” 

        She would speak with Varys later, see if Brienne of Tarth could be useful for gathering information about the North. Daenerys turned to Grey Worm. _“How are they?”_ she asked gently. 

        _“They are recovering,”_ Grey Worm worked his jaw. _“The little man is keeping to his promise, but two were beyond his help.”_

        _“I am sorry, my friend.”_

        She had yet to see the deepest part of the Black Cells at Grey Worm’s insistence. Some of the cells were given over to those suffering from extreme sickness, and it was into those a group of unknowing Unsullied ventured. Others were worse than charnel houses. The things her general said he found there reminded him strongly of the worst sights of Astapor; tortures he thought left far behind in Essos. When questioned, the guards said the cells were the domain of one man. 

        Qyburn. 

        When he was first brought forward as a prisoner, she’d dismissed him as a scholar or perhaps a member of the Faith. Qyburn was a short, aged man, soft-spoken and gentle, with a face that seemed prone to smiling if the lines near his eyes and mouth were any indication. The man certainly didn’t look important in his plain black robes. It was Grey Worm who insisted she see where the man was found and the device he built. She ordered the weapon dismantled, the pieces burned, and any notes concerning it destroyed. When questioned he insisted that the work was done on Cersei’s order, and he was only following the orders of his queen. 

        “Do not trust him, Your Grace,” Varys warned as Qyburn was led away. “He may look kindly, but the worst poisons are often the sweetest.” 

        She did not need such warnings. 

        The false maester did not look like a monster capable of the things that occurred in the depths of the Red Keep, but he did not deny the atrocities found in the dungeons were his doing. Rather he took a strange pride in them. It was he who warned them to isolate the men who went into the Black Cells well before they showed signs of sickness that could be passed on. 

        “It was not my intention to set a trap for your Unsullied, Your Grace,” he insisted. “In order to cure disease, one must study it in a situation where the diseased can be controlled. The Black Cells were perfect for my needs. I only wish I’d known that you planned to send men down there, I would have warned you.” When she questioned his methods he only shrugged. “My work has allowed me to cure many people, Your Grace. People other maesters would have deemed too far gone because they refuse to do what is necessary to truly understand their adversary. The path to knowledge is only difficult for those who lack the stomach for it.” 

        “Heal my men and I will turn you over to the Citadel,” she promised. “You are their monster, and I will let them deal with you.” With the addendum to the Archmaester that if Qyburn was ever released from what passed as a penitent cell, she would see him dragged from Old Town and held accountable for whatever crimes the man committed while free. 

        So far, he did as he said, and four of the Unsullied were recovering from whatever ailments they contracted while in the Black Cells, though they were weak as newborns. 

        She cut her eyes to the rest of the Council, and Grey Worm turned to face them. “The man Qyburn says there is no chance of further spread of the Red Fever,” he reported. 

        Something like a sigh of relief when through her Small Council. When Grey Worm revealed what the cause of his men’s malady she could see the fear and apprehension in her lords. Red fever was an only slightly less fatal form of the Red Death but could only be spread by direct contact with the bodily fluids of the infected, Qyburn insisted, and the men who entered the cells were not capable of spreading the disease beyond themselves in the short time they interacted with the rest of her men. 

        “While this is certainly good news, the question of Cersei Lannister must be answered,” Lord Celtigar looked like the words were pulled from him. 

        “Your Queenship rests on the belief that Cersei had no claim to the throne, and that you restored it to House Targaryen,” Tyrion pressed. “By delaying any judgment, you are allowing the people to spin fantasies that are creating problems for your rule. If you let your fear-” 

        “I am not afraid of Cersei Lannister!” 

        “An unfortunate turn of phrase,” he answered quickly, raising a placating hand. “But that is what people will think the longer this goes on. Your promised Ellaria Sand and Olenna Tyrell vengeance for the wrongs my sister dealt them. It is time to follow through on that promise.” 

        When she refused to respond Lord Langward cleared his throat. “There is still the matter of your coronation to attend to, Your Grace,” he said quickly. “ 

        Daenerys fought the urge to close her eyes. It was at Tyrion’s insistence that she kept Cersei’s Master of Coin on her Small Council, though not as Master of Coin. When Langward admitted that the former queen placed him in charge of the stores of the city she decided to create a new position; Master of Grains. So far, the man proved to be competent enough at his work that she had no reason to replace him. “The coronation will be simple. I need no more than my lords and ladies to bear witness. I’ve two Lords Paramount, the queen of the Iron Islands and the ruling Princess of Dorne in King’s Landing as we speak.” 

        “Soon to be three Lords Paramount,” Tyrion corrected. “My Aunt Genna and cousin Daven should arrive in time to swear their fealty, Your Grace.” 

        Langward looked scandalized. “Your Grace… do you have a crown?” he asked delicately. 

        “I do, my lord. You have no reason to fear an expense the Crown cannot bear.” 

        The man visibly sank back into his chair. “There is also the matter of entertainments-” 

        “There will be none,” she said with finality. “I understand from my Hand and Lord Celtigar that the Crown can hardly carry such an expense. Nor would one be appropriate. I will not feast my lords while their smallfolk face starvation.” 

        Her declaration led to another sagging of his shoulders. She knew the city stores were not as plentiful as they should be so early in the winter, and she would not strain them further. “How goes returning the people to their farms?” 

        “Some have agreed to leave of their own free will. Others are reluctant to leave the safety of the city.” 

        She worked her jaw. The lawlessness in the countryside was proving to be more difficult to deal with than taking the city. The Kingswood was rife with bandits from all reports, ones bold enough to attack any caravan, and no village without fighting men was safe. 

        “The Dothraki and Unsullied are working to clear the countryside, while our men have taken to the Kingswood. So far, over fifty men have been arrested and await judgment for brigandry.” Lord Darkwood gave a small smile. “The horse lords are better trackers than I would have given them credit for.” 

        “Which has raised another problem, Your Grace,” Varys sat straighter in his chair. “There are those that refuse to leave the capital because they fear your men. They fear the Dothraki will attack their villages.” 

        “The Dothraki follow my orders, and those orders are to track those who attack the people.” _I am the Stallion that Mounts the World,_ she wished to say, but she knew that would have no meaning to them. Only the boldest of her khalasar would dare challenge her orders, and those who heard would likely cut their braids and throw them at her feet for Drogon to deal with. 

        Tyrion tapped the table with his fist. “In the coming months, the smallfolk will grow used to the sight of the Dothraki. Once that happens and they see they mean them no harm, it will be easier to convince them to relocate. It will help if you speak to them about the treatment of their prisoners.” The first groups of men brought to the Red Keep by her Dothraki arrived naked and bloodied, half-frozen from being dragged behind their horses from wherever they were found. 

        “I will speak with them, Lord Hand,” she reassured. At the least, they should be allowed to keep their trousers and shoes. “Is there other business?” 

        The men looked at each other. “No, Your Grace,” Varys answered. 

        She stood. “Then I will see the Council at our next meeting.” 

        She hoped she would get a reprieve from the Lannisters but it wasn’t to be. When Tyrion appeared at her door later that night behind the servants carrying the dinner tray for Missandei and herself, she knew what he wanted. He knew her stance on his sister, but he had yet to push on judgment for his brother. She thought he would ask for Jaime to be pardoned, perhaps exiled to Essos. His suggestion was surprising. 

        “The Night’s Watch?” 

        Tyrion eyed the pitcher of wine between them. 

        “Your brother killed my father, the king he swore to guard with his life and spent the next sixteen years cuckolding the Usurper with his own twin,” Daenerys’ voice was steel. “From what I understand he attacked Ned Stark, then Hand of the King, in the streets of King’s Landing before abandoning his post as Kingsguard. For any of those crimes, the punishment would be death.” 

        “My brother has never been known for his careful planning,” Tyrion tried to inject humor into the words, but they fell flat. 

        Daenerys watched her Hand closely. “Your brother has condemned himself from his own mouth and by his own hand, yet you want me to give him his life?” 

        “There are many who would say life on the Wall is far worse than death.” He gave her a death’s head grin. “Death is so… _final._ Over in an instant. Forty years freezing your balls off at the end of the world is a far harsher sentence, if you ask me.” 

        “So is the headman’s block.” 

        “If I may, Your Grace,” Missandei’s voice was gentle. “Perhaps Lord Tyrion is right.” 

        “Right?” A laugh punched out of her chest. “You would let the man who murdered your father keep his life?” 

        Her friend breathed deeply. “I have told you much of Naath, Your Grace. Though I do not remember my father and I imagine his death would pain me greatly it would not be my place to harm the man who murdered him. The Lord of Harmony balances all scales in the end.” 

        Daenerys closed her eyes. The Naathi were pacifists. Their religion prevented them from defending themselves, even against the slavers who stole them away. _And that was cruel,_ she berated herself. One of Missandei’s greatest regrets was her inability to remember her parents or homeland. 

        “But it is not a matter of desiring revenge that I speak of,” Missandei continued. “You cannot pardon Jaime Lannister for his crimes but giving him his life will go far to show the people of Westeros the kind of queen you mean to be.” 

        “You’ve been avoiding casting judgment on my sister and brother for weeks now, Your Grace. Maybe it isn’t fear, but there is a reason you’ve refused to have either before you. It isn’t just you’ve had better things to do.” Her Hand twisted in a way she now knew meant he wanted to say something but was trying to find the most politic way of doing so. “You know the truth about your father now,” Tyrion said carefully. 

        Her spine stiffened. “What are you suggesting?” 

        Tyrion sighed. “I asked my brother once, and only once, what happened in those last days before the city fell. He was seventeen, younger than you are now, left alone in the capital to guard a madman.” He swallowed when her eyes hardened. “I asked him why he did it, and do you know what he did? He walked away. He looked at me like I asked him if he knew the day he would die, stood up, and walked away from me. It was the first time he ever did that. The only time.” 

        “You’re suggesting my father deserved to die?” 

        Tyrion shook his head. “No. I’m suggesting he did something or wanted to do something, that even you might have executed him for.” He gazed at her, imploring. “Talk to him, face to face, without an audience to judge him. Without anyone for him to act the uncaring bastard he always pretends to be and ask him why he did it. He wouldn’t answer his brother. Maybe he’ll answer Aerys’s daughter.” 

        

        Jaime always thought he’d die in King’s Landing. 

        From his first days as a Kingsguard, when the cries of Queen Rhaella drove him near mad and Prince Llewyn had to physically restrain him from bursting into the royal chambers, he knew the city would be his end. Maybe Aerys would burn him alive for some slight real or imagined Tywin dealt him. Maybe he would be unable to restrain himself and Ser Gerold would cut off his head as he tried to relieve the Mad King of his. Later, he wondered if he and Cersei would be caught. There were certainly more eyes on them in the Keep than in Casterly Rock, and there was no telling who owned any of them. Maybe one night, Robert would decide to visit Cersei while he was balls deep inside her and the game would be given away. 

        That fantasy was his favorite. 

        He always wondered what expression Robert would have when he caught Jaime fucking his wife. If he would know at that moment that it wasn’t the first time. If he would realize the children he claimed were another man’s. The fantasy always ended the same way; with his sword through Robert’s heart, the man’s blue eyes open in surprise and shock before more than the truth could work its way through the haze of wine. On his more maudlin days he imagined Ser Barristan running him through before the light left the King’s eyes, the War for Cersei’s Cunt claiming it’s only two victims. 

        On his more fantastical days, before Cersei bore children, Ser Barristan never entered into it. He would kill Robert and he and Cersei would sneak out of the Red Keep before the sun rose. They would leave this place of secrets and lies and torment behind and board a ship to Essos. Cersei’s wedding jewelry alone would see them well settled for the rest of their lives, not counting the treasures left behind by Queen Rhaella that Robert gifted her. They could have seen the world. Traveled to the black city of Qohor, lived in untold luxury in Qarth or dared venture to Asshai. It didn’t matter where they went, so long as she was by his side. Any children she bore would be his to claim, his to help her raise, and when they died it would be as they entered the world. As they lived: together. 

        “You truly are a fool, aren’t you?” Jamie whispered into the darkness. 

        He asked Cersei once, a week before she married Robert. Begged her to run away with him. He had a small sack of gold dragons he wheedled out of their father supplemented by what he could glean from Arthur and Gerold’s rooms before Ser Barristan returned with Robert. The gods knew Prince Llewyn kept enough gold on hand to make Jaime question his activities. 

        _“I will be queen,”_ Cersei said to him then. The red of her gown was deeper than blood, yet even that wasn’t rich enough to wash out her color. It brought out the apples of her cheeks, made the green of her eyes that much more striking and made her pale skin glow. The golden embroidery on her bodice and sleeves was nothing compared to the sunlight that played through her hair. She was shining and golden, perfect. _“What would we have?”_

        _We would have lived. Maybe, we would have been happy._

        It was no matter. Her words shattered what hope he had of finding any happiness with her that wasn’t stolen in the dead of night. 

        He never prayed to the gods to love another. Never viewed their love as unnatural, no matter what the septons and septas said or how they sneered when relating the Targaryen family tree. Loving Cersei was as easy for him as breathing. She was the first thing he could remember; bright green eyes the exact shade of his own staring at him, a gap-toothed smile in a winsome face. There was no time in his life that Cersei wasn’t there, or that he wasn’t in hers. They were meant to be together, the gods made it so when they were brought squalling from their mother’s womb the same night. Who else could there be for him but his other half, the Maiden to his Warrior? 

        Sapphire blue eyes intruded on his thoughts, set in a broad, plain face framed by golden hair. The pale skin of a long throat marred by claw marks below a crooked smile there and gone again in an instant. 

        Brienne of Tarth was another of his many failures, though he tried to do his best by her. He knew from the moment his sister learned of her that he would be unable to protect her from Cersei’s ire, so he did the only thing he could do; outfitted her as befitted a knight of her station and pushed her to complete her quest and his own. He wondered what happened to the wench. If she’d found Sansa after all. Cersei’s spies never did clarify if she was in Winterfell, just that the girl was with her brother. He hoped she had. Even if she hadn’t, Jaime was sure she was riding there now, the thought of pledging herself to the girl the only thing on her mind. Brienne was worth more than a thousand anointed knights. 

        Arthur would have loved her, he mused. The Dornish had no quarrel with their women knowing how to defend themselves. They viewed most women born above the Marches as weak, only capable of manipulation. The only manipulation Brienne was capable of was manipulating her sword to knock a man in the dirt. He imagined Dayne might have argued with Hightower over appointing her as a Kingsguard once he saw her fight if that was her wish. 

        The heavy grating of the outer doors broke Jaime out of his melancholy, followed by footsteps and the ruddy torchlight. _So this is how I die,_ he mused, plastering a smile on his face as the light brightened. 

        When the door to his cell swung open and three Unsullied entered spears at the ready, and Jaime tensed. When a small, unarmored figure followed them, he felt his mouth go dry. 

        “Your Grace.” He let every bit of the mockery he had left color his words as his heart threatened to beat out of his chest. He looked down at himself. “I would stand, but I’m afraid I’m a bit tied down at the moment.” 

        Daenerys Targaryen gave him a bland look. “I have no need for you to stand.” 

        “Good. I’d hate to disappoint you.” 

        Daenerys stared down at him, safely out of arm and leg reach as one of her Unsullied set a small stool behind her. Not that he would even bother. Killing her would make no difference now that the city was lost. Instead, he took the time to take her in. 

        She was a tiny thing. 

        Rhaella was small as well: fine-boned and delicate, but with a core of steel that no matter what Aerys did, he couldn’t take from her. She would smile at him through bruised lips as he helped her to her rooms when Aerys was through with her, the thin skin of her wrists blackened, her neck red and mauled. Never once in all his time as a Kingsguard did he hear her raise her voice, but her commands were always followed as if the Mother herself uttered them. Her soft “Thank you, Ser Jaime,” haunted him to this day. 

        Daenerys Targaryen would perhaps come to just below his shoulder if he was being generous with her height. The torchlight turned her skin and hair deep gold, but he knew that was a lie. Her skin would be moon-pale, her hair silver-blonde like all Targaryens, almost white in certain lights. It was flattering, considering the heavy black dress she wore, the front almost completely obscured by what he was sure was red scrollwork. Her eyebrows were straight and dark where Rhaella’s arched delicately, but the shape of her face was the same. She stood with the bearing of a queen, face impassive as she examined him in turn. He imagined he didn’t look like much stripped down to his shirt and trousers, his stump in full view. In the dim light he could almost imagine she was Rhaella come back to life staring down at him, judging him for all his sins. 

        “You look like your mother.” 

        He didn’t mean to say the words, they ripped out of him on a breath filled with regret and longing. Maybe, if he’d been braver, he would have killed Aerys before the Rebellion. Killed him the afternoon he left the queen weeping on the floor of her solar, dress torn, hair pulled from her careful braids. Perhaps Rhaegar would have shown mercy and sent him to the Wall for sparing his mother more harm. The Rebellion might not have happened, Cersei might never have married Robert and spent the rest of her life trapped in her golden prison. He would spend a thousand years on that frozen heap if it meant saving those he loved even half their suffering. 

        Daenerys didn’t expect the words either, based on the way her eyes widened. Not Rhaella’s eyes. Hers were the purest indigo he’d ever seen outside of Ashara Dayne. Daenerys Targaryen had eyes that spiraled in color from what he thought was murky green to brilliant blue. Daenerys had Aerys’ eyes. 

        Rhaegar’s eyes. 

        “So, come to see the Kingslayer?” He gave her a mocking smile. “I can’t imagine how satisfying it must be, seeing the man who killed your father in chains.” 

        Her eyebrow ticked slightly, though her face remained impassive. 

        “Have you killed Cersei yet?” The words tore at his heart, but he refused to let it show. Funneled his pain into scathing humor. His sister couldn’t be dead. He always imagined he would feel it if she died, like a part of himself was torn away. “It can’t be good for you, having a former queen lying around. Might give people ideas.” 

        Daenerys said something sharply in Valyrian and the three Unsullied stood straighter. He knew the sound of Valyrian, had heard Aerys scream it enough to know the shape of the words even though he was a poor student. Jaime stared as one by one they left. The last to leave paused at the door and asked a question, he thought. Daenerys answered, and he left as well, closing the door behind him. 

        He huffed out a breath. “Do you really think that’s wise?” 

        The girl settled on the stool; her dark skirts spread wide. “Your brother was right about you.” 

        Fierce pride and burning hatred fought in his chest. “He usually is.” 

        “He said you liked to play the uncaring bastard,” she sounded amused. “That you liked to taunt your enemies into doing what you want.” 

        “Did he also tell you I wasn’t above killing an unarmed girl?” He let a hint of venom tint his voice. 

        Her smile threw him off balance. Another thing she took from her mother. “He said not to give you an audience to play to. So here we are.” 

        Jaime made a show of looking around his prison. It was one of the smaller cells, meant to hold no more than three men, the dark walls wet with moisture that rotted the straw thrown in every few days. “Yes, here we are. I must say there are better accommodation in the Red Keep than this. If it’s conversation you’re after, might I suggest-” 

        “Why did you kill my father?” 

        Her question made him stop speaking, stop breathing. He expected it, but not for her to ask so bluntly. Her expression didn’t change as she watched him, her eyes searching out any sign of weakness. _She only looks delicate,_ he admonished himself. To cover his discomfort Jamie laughed, the sound echoing in the empty space. “Why do you think?” 

        “Because you are a man without honor,” she answered, voice cool. “Because you chose your father over your king and the vows you took. Because you wanted the glory of killing him and ending the war yourself, only it didn’t turn out that way for you, did it?” Her eyes shifted over him. “You were forever branded the Kingslayer. It became a stain on you, one that perseveres to this day.” 

        Jaime leaned his head back. “If you know all this, why ask me?” 

        “Are you refusing to answer your queen?” 

        He lifted his hand and caressed the collar at his neck. “It’s not like there’s anything worse you can do to me.” He looked down. “Not anything you don’t already have planned.” 

        She shifted on the hard stool at that. Good, let her remember he knew his fate. “Call it curiosity, then.” 

        He glared up at her. “I killed Aerys because the war was already over. You lost” His voice was raw with anger. “Rhaegar was dead at the Trident. His army was either dead with him or bending the knee. Your mother and brother had fled to Dragonstone. They might have lasted against a siege for a few months, but not once the Westerland fleet got there. By the time I killed old King Scab my father’s men were already sacking the city and storming the gates of the Keep. Your father was dead. He just didn’t know it.” 

        She stared at him when he finished speaking, Rhaegar’s eyes assessing him like a maester would a sick man. 

        “Why do you care about all of this, anyway?” he asked. “He’s dead. So is almost everyone who had a hand in your family losing the Seven Kingdoms.” Except him, and he imagined he would be joining them before long. 

        “Because perhaps there is another reason.” Her gaze was as unwavering as her voice. “Ser Barristan told me tales of my father. Of the things he did in his madness. The atrocities committed against his people. His family. Ser Jorah confirmed many of these things for me.” She looked away, the first crack in her composure. “Your brother said you may have had another reason for killing him. One that I might even agree with.” He must have given himself away somehow because something like satisfaction spread on her face. “So, tell me, Kingslayer, what was the real reason you killed my father?” 

        His anger melted away at her question. He squinted up at her. “You know, you’re only the second person to ever ask me that.” 

        “Does that mean you’ll give me an answer?” 

        He rolled the back of his head against the wall. “You have dragons. I assume you’ve used them?” 

        “When I’ve had to.” The words were clipped. 

        “Hmm… When you ‘had to’.” 

        She met his challenging glare with one of her own. “I’ve used my children to protect my people. When the armies of Astapor and Yunkai came to take Meereen and return everyone I freed to slavery, I used them to burn their ships until they surrendered.” 

        “And the sight of three grown dragons flying overhead wasn’t enough?” When she didn’t respond he looked down. “Your father liked to burn people, too.” 

        “I don’t ‘like’ to burn people,” she all but hissed. 

        Jaime’s head came up sharply and he fixed her with a hard glare. “But you do it. You tell yourself that’s there’s no other way, that there’s no choice, so you do it.” Daenerys’ eyes glittered in the torchlight as the skin around them grew tight. He’d hit a nerve. Good. “Tell me… how do you feel when you see them burn? Do you feel powerful? Vindicated? Does it excite you to listen to men scream out their last moments?” 

        They glared at one another, brilliant green against swirling blue until she looked away. “Sad,” she said, and the soft word caught him off guard. “I feel sad, that my children were forced to kill on my order. That there was no other way.” When she turned back to him the molten steel was back in her gaze. “They are my children, but they are weapons. Weapons that helped me win my throne. That saved millions from the yoke of slavery. I cannot… I will not… feel guilty for that.” 

        Jaime stared at her, searching for any hint of dishonesty but found none. It was more than Rhaegar’s eyes staring at him, he realized. 

        “You’re better than your father then,” he said, and he could feel every year of his age in the words. “Aerys was obsessed with fire. He would stare into fireplaces and braziers for hours… when he wasn’t ranting about traitors and betrayal. And when the logs weren’t enough, he would call for criminals, peasants… once, after the High Septon complained, he had the Gold Cloaks gather all the street urchins that begged around the Sept of Baelor and bring them to the throne room. You can imagine what happened then.” 

        He wasn’t on duty that day, but Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold were. He was just waking when he heard them return to the White Tower and went out to ask if anything of import happened. Both of them looked…lost. It was the only time he saw Ser Barristan cry, though he quickly left once a tear trekked down his cheek. Ser Gerold seemed to snap out of the stupor that gripped him and told Jaime what happened in the emptiest voice he’d ever heard before or since before retreating to his own room. At first, he hadn’t believed it, not until later, when Prince Llewyn returned only long enough to change out of his armor before heading into the city, cursing about the cracked bones of children. 

        He shuddered, pulling himself out of the memory. “His favorite method of execution was wildfire,” he told her. “Have you ever seen it?” 

        Daenerys swallowed. “No.” 

        “It’s not like normal flame.” He could still see it after twenty years, still smell the harsh odor mixed with ash. “Before you light it it’s a thick liquid. Almost glows. Pretty, in a way. You have to be careful because once you get it on you a hundred washings aren’t enough to get it off.” He learned that the first time he was ordered to help the pyromancers and some of the foul-smelling stuff splashed onto his hand and armor. He was taken to their guildhall immediately and spent hours being scrubbed with equally foul-smelling unguents and sand until they declared him clean. The greaves he never saw again. “It burns bright green, not like any green you’ve seen before. It dances. It smells…” He shuddered. “Imagine malevolence given form, that’s wildfire. Nothing can put it out once it’s lit. It just burns until there’s nothing left to burn. Melts flesh like wax.” He swallowed against the memory of screams and the smell of scorched meat. To this day there were times when he avoided everything but fish. “Before the Rebellion Aerys saw traitors everywhere, even Rhaegar when he was in the worst of his madness. And once the war started the pyromancers couldn’t make it fast enough. When there was nothing left but the stench and ash he would go to your mother.” 

        She heaved in a breath, eyes focusing on the stones near the door. 

        “I should have killed him then,” Jaime whispered into the silence, uncaring of his audience as Rhaella’s screams echoed in his mind. “I should have broken down the door and slit his throat, not stood there and...” he trailed off. “You wouldn’t be alive, but your mother might be. Your brother. Rhaegar and his wife and children.” 

        Daenerys’s eyes were cold, assessing. “So you killed my father as justice for those he murdered?” 

        Jaime shook his head. “It wasn’t just that.” He felt the words stall in his chest. He’d held the secret for over twenty years. Spoke of it to only one other person, the woman he thought he knew better than his own soul. Even then she never asked; he spilled the secret hoping it would be like lancing a wound. “He had his pyromancers make gallons of wildfire and place it throughout the city. In taverns, sewers, attics and basements. There wasn’t an army to defend us. He sent all the troops with your brother, and when Rhaegar fell at the Trident they surrendered or were captured. Those that continued to fight were put to the sword.” He shook his head, words coming faster now as if some great dam had broken. “It didn’t matter to your father. He always said fire with the champion of the Targaryens.” Jaime took a deep breath. “When my father came to the gates, I begged the king to surrender. I knew my father wasn’t there with his army to do anything but earn Robert’s good graces.” He looked down. “Aerys refused to listen to me. He wouldn’t listen to Varys either, though the eunuch tried. He chose to listen to fucking Pycelle and opened the gates.” 

        “And your father sacked the city.” 

        Jaime laughed humorlessly. “Oh, he did. And your father, Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men turned to his pyromancer and said, ‘Burn them all’”. He waited for the words to sink in. “He never planned to surrender the throne, and if he couldn’t have it, no one would. There were half a million people in King’s Landing, and he would have murdered every one of them. Left nothing for Robert Baratheon but ashes and charred bones.” 

        The queen was still as a statue. “So you killed him,” she said, her lips barely moving. 

        He looked away; eyes boring into the darkness. “Him and the pyromancer. Then I hunted the rest of them down. It was chaos out there. I couldn’t risk that there was some plan in place if the pyromancers didn’t hear from Rossart or if the sack itself was the signal.” He fought his way to the Pyromancer’s guildhall that night, killing any soldier that tried to stop him. One, an old, withered bastard like Rossart asked if it was time, and he thrust his sword through the man’s stomach. Anyone who alluded to Rossart or the King’s wishes died that night. “By the time I returned to the Keep Maegor’s had fallen, Elia and her children were dead, and the only thing left was to wait for Robert.” 

        He spent hours staring down at Aerys, examining his greasy hair and long, ragged nails. The king looked like a beggar dressed in the finest velvets, his blood a dull crimson pool. When Ned Stark came, his men at his back, no doubt ready to take the king into custody all he saw was Tywin Lannister’s son sitting on the Iron Throne. He didn’t see the way he tightened his hands into fists to hide their shaking or the pallor of his skin. Didn’t know that there was a pile of sick in one of the side halls, nothing but bile and water, from immediately after Jaime withdrew his sword and realized the totality of what he’d done. 

        When his father came, armor streaked with the blood of those unfortunate enough to get in his way, he smiled at the corpse and told Jaime that he’d done his duty to his family. When Lorch laid the bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon beside their grandfather it was all he could do not to turn his blade on them both. 

        Of all his failures, the death of Elia and her children haunted him the most. He never thought his father would order them killed. They could have been sent to Dorne to live out the rest of their days, or else exiled across the sea. Rhaegar’s last command was to keep them safe, and he’d failed. 

        “Ser Jaime?” 

        He blinked and looked up. Daenerys was looking down at him. It wasn’t the cold expression she wore when she first entered the cell. It was soft, painfilled. “If this is true, why would you say nothing?” 

        “A Kingsguard keeps his king’s secrets,” he answered by rote. “And as I said, no one asked, except Tyrion…and you. You said Ser Barristan told you the truth of your father. If he was willing to break his oaths… well, no one would believe Jaime Lannister was more honorable than Barristan the Bold.” 

        He might have told Ned Stark if he’d asked. The gods knew he wasn’t in his right mind when the Northman burst into the throne room, but he hadn’t. He’d taken one look at Aerys and Jaime, sitting on the throne (the only seat in the room that wasn’t the floor) and his face twisted into an expression he knew all too well, even then. He knew then that whatever he had to say wouldn’t matter; Lord Stark had already made up his mind, and any protestations would fall on deaf ears. He was judged and found guilty, and if there was one thing Jaime Lannister never did, it was argue his innocence. 

        Instead, he did what he always did; wrapped the cold disdain his father taught him mixed with his own biting humor around himself, his very first armor. 

        Daenerys stood abruptly, her slight shoulders squared as she stared down at him, her expression set in stone. 

        “Have I earned your pardon, Your Grace?” He couldn’t help needling her, just a little. Cersei was dead, or soon to be. Without her, there was nothing, no matter how often a pair of sapphire blue eyes haunted him. Better to have a quick death than be left to rot down there like so many others. 

        “Thank you for your honesty, Ser Jaime,” she said, every inch the queen she was born to be. At a sharp word the door opened, and she strode out. 

* * *

        The people who threw her family out of Westeros always loomed large in her mind. Robert Baratheon was a monster twenty feet tall with a hammer that could break mountains. Eddard Stark a mad dog with pointed teeth who howled at the full moon. Robert Arryn had eyes as cold as the falcon that graced his sigil that missed nothing. Tywin Lannister was as vicious as the lion that stood rampant on his standards, with claws instead of fingernails. As a child, Viserys would tell her tales of these people, these betrayers who killed their brother and his family. Who dashed the brains of boy less than a year old on the walls of his nursery and raped his mother while others violated his sister before slaughtering them both. Who broke a sacred oath and killed their father. For years, she had nightmares about wolves and lions, falcons and stags; chasing her, pecking at her eyes and tearing the flesh from her bones. 

        When she called her Small Council early that morning and told them her plans their relief was palpable. News spread through the Keep that an event was planned for midday and she required the assembled court to gather in the throne room at the hour of the sun. 

        The woman walking towards her was no lion. Her hair was tawny enough to be that of one of the great cats, but it was dull and cropped short. Her skin was sallow, the hollows around her eyes pronounced. Despite all this Cersei Lannister, self-proclaimed queen of the Seven Kingdoms held herself with the bearing of a woman who hailed from a great House. A woman who knew from the moment she could understand such things that she was better. Even now, deposed and approaching what could very well be her death, she kept her chin raised in defiance. The heavy black silk of her dress made her skin appear paler than it was, the embroidery that weighed down both shoulders reminiscent of armor. When she made her decision the night before Daenerys’s first instinct was to send to the city for simpler clothing, but she thought better of it and allowed the woman the run of her wardrobe. Let Cersei parade herself before the court as she would, she did not fear her. 

        Daenerys settled further onto her throne, back straight, face placid. For the first time since landing in Westeros, she wore her House colors proudly. Her dress was the deepest black. The bodice fit tightly at chest and arm before flaring softly into the skirt. The three-headed dragon on her chest was embroidered in deep crimson, each claw and tooth rendered in sharp silver. The eyes were opals and flashed fire with her every breath. The scaled cape she wore into the city was pinned at one shoulder by a silver three-headed dragon and fell down her left arm in a wave of blood-red fabric. The wide neck of the dress just clung to her shoulders, revealing the pale skin of her throat and the tops of her shoulders and was edged in scrollwork the same deep crimson as the dragon on her breast. Her hair was woven into fine braids that were wrapped around to form a crown woven through with cloth of silver. She would not wear a crown, not until the High Septon himself crowned her, but the result was much the same. 

        Cersei’s eyes swept over her with barely contained rage before they drifted to Olenna Tyrell and Ellaria Sand. Olenna sat sedately on a stool to her left; far enough away that she could not be considered as having undue influence, but close enough that her position at court was clear. Ellaria stood behind her, and though she refused to look at them Daenerys was sure both women wore expressions of satisfaction. 

        “Cersei Lannister,” Daenerys’s voice rang through the throne room when the woman stopped before the throne, flanked by her Unsullied guards. “Even is Essos, we heard of Robert’s queen. Her golden hair and emerald eyes. Her alabaster skin. The people of Pentos said you must have been hewn by the gods from precious stones, so great is your beauty.” 

        The former queen gave her something that might have been a smile if not for the malice dripping from every tooth. “We heard of you as well,” she said. “Of the Beggar King and his sister. Of how your brother sold you to a Dothraki savage to be raped every night in exchange for an army.” 

        Daenerys took a careful breath as the former queen’s words sent a murmur through the lords and ladies present. She would not let the barbs of this bitter woman hit true. “And your father sold you to the Usurper so a Lannister could finally sit atop my family’s throne.” She gave a small, mocking smile. “I came to love my husband. Did you ever love yours?” 

        Cersei’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing. 

        “We are not here to speak of our husbands,” Daenerys said with a trace of mocking. 

        “No, you’re here to tell me how I die,” the older woman challenged. “How will you do it? Will one of your savages open my throat?” Her eyes went to the high windows. “I’ve seen the dragons you let terrorize King’s Landing. Will you burn me alive, the way your father did his enemies?” 

        Daenerys saw several of her lords shift as another murmur went through the crowd. Cersei knew what she was doing, invoking Aerys. She would not let her father’s ghost sully these proceedings. “Cersei Lannister, you stand accused of the murder of Margaery Tyrell, crowned and true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Olenna sat up straighter. “You stand accused of the murder of Mace Tyrell, Warden of the Reach, and his son and heir, Loras Tyrell. You stand accused of the murder of your own uncle, Kevan Lannister, as well as the High Sparrow. You stand accused of plotting the destruction of the Sept of Baelor, and of the murder of all who died in its destruction.” There was no real accounting, though many lords were in attendance. The list was shockingly long, mainly smaller vassals from the Crownlands, many of whom had kin watching the proceedings. “You stand accused of the wanton destruction of the surrounding buildings lost in the blast.” 

        “The destruction of the Sept was a tragic accident,” Cersei countered, a small smile tilting her lips. “An old cache of wildfire that grew volatile, my Hand said.” 

        Daenerys was not swayed. “Strange, isn’t it, how everyone who stood in the way of you sitting on the throne happened to die in such a tragic accident, on the very day you were to be tried by the faith for incest, cuckolding your husband, and lechery?” Whispers started around them. “It is common knowledge from here to the Wall that the destruction of Baelor was no accident. It was a planned attack on the faith of the Seven, orchestrated by a woman unable to let go of her control of a throne that was never hers to begin with.” 

        Cersei’s cool demeanor cracked. She attempted to lunge, only to be brought short by hands gripping her arms. “The Iron Throne is mine!” she snarled. 

        Daenerys raised a brow. “And how do you lay such a claim? You are neither Targaryen nor conqueror. Your own husband solidified his claim through the blood of his grandmother, Rhaelle Targaryen. That right passed to your children.” Oh, how she wished to denounce Cersei’s children, but she could not. For the sake of her alliance with the Reach, Margaery had to have met her end a queen. “According to all laws of Westeros the throne should have passed to Stannis Baratheon once Tommen was dead, and if not him, then Shireen. By what right, then, do you claim the throne?” 

        Cersei glowered. 

        “You have heard the charges against you, my lady. You have a fortnight to prepare for your trial.” 

        Cersei’s lips went white. “Trial?” the word was sharp. 

        Daenerys could not help the smile that lifted her features. “Yes, my lady. Your trial. You will have the time allotted to request witnesses in your favor. The Crown will not deny you. The trial will be held before the court, open to any who wish to witness it. Your crimes are against the common people of the Seven Kingdoms as well as the high lords, and I will see justice done in their name.” 

        

        She despised her quarters. 

        Cersei curled her fingers into her palms until she felt the thin skin there near breaking as she stared at the walls of her prison. She knew the room well. It belonged to Sansa Stark once, after her father was arrested and she was no longer worthy of the quarters afforded the daughter of the king’s Hand. They were an insult even to a member of a lesser house really, though she imagined the silly chit hardly knew it. The room was just large enough to hold a simple bed stuffed with wool, a low dressing table, and the bench that sat the bed’s foot. The chamber pot was removed when she threw its contents at one of her guards, the washbasin and stand when she used one to barricade the door and the other as a weapon. 

        Now, she had to ask for a chamber pot when she needed to relieve herself, wait until one was fetched, and suffer being watched as she relieved herself. The first time she kicked the contents onto the floor she was forced to deal with the scent for hours before two maids came to clean the mess. Water for washing was brought every morning and evening, and at least she was saved the indignity of being watched by savages as she bathed. 

        Cersei hissed as she fought not to count out the seconds. She asked her captors for a chamber pot what felt like hours ago, and a maidservant had yet to appear with one. She turned to the single, narrow window. A trio of what looked like Westerosi ladies walked through the narrow courtyard below, one with hair dirty blonde, the other two brunettes. _Traitors,_ she seethed. Would that she could see their faces, so that she could see them beheaded for their treason when she escaped and reclaimed her throne. She knew Jaime couldn’t convince cousin Devan to send the bulk of the Lannister forces left in the West. No doubt he and Aunt Genna were already working to find a way to free them. 

        And she would escape. 

        She near screamed at the thought of what happened earlier; paraded like a curiosity in front of the court to be ridiculed and laughed at, held up to the judgment of a slip of a girl and her demon brother. Cersei refused to even acknowledge her brother’s presence. She made sure to dress as befit the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, to hold herself as her father taught her. A lion did not cower in the face of danger, and she would throw herself from her own window before she allowed the bitch to see her cower. 

        The Targaryen girl was just that, a girl. She appeared to be little more than twenty. Without her dragons and the judgment of better men, where would she be? Still sucking Dothraki cock somewhere in Essos, no doubt, for all she tried to present herself as something of worth. Without the peculiar coloring of her family, she would have been dull, boring; capable of being one of Littlefinger’s whores at best. Jaime often wrote of Queen Rhaella’s otherworldly beauty in his first days in King’s Landing. It appeared her daughter inherited none of it. 

        _Jaime._ She hadn’t seen her brother since the night they were taken, but she knew he wasn’t dead. She was sure she would know, feel it, though she doubted he was kept in accommodations such as hers. The dragon bitch would see her father’s murderer in the blackest of the black cells. 

        A hard thud broke her from her thoughts. The door swung open, revealing one of her Unsullied guards and a servant girl carrying a plain chamber pot, her small body swimming in her uniform. “Your Grace,” she said with a small curtsy, grey eyes wide in her youthful face before stepping inside. The Unsullied glared at her before shutting the door. 

        Finally, someone who remembered who she was. Cersei frowned when the girl kept hold of the chamber pot. “What are you waiting for?” Her bladder was near full to bursting after her long wait. The child she carried played havoc with her insides. She couldn’t recall needing to relieve herself this much in any other pregnancy, and certainly not so early. 

        “You don’t remember me, do you?” 

        The question caught her off guard. Why would the wench think she was worthy of remembrance? Dozens of maids served in the castle. “I don’t care who you are. Put the pot down, idiot,” she said through clenched teeth, wishing she could order the girl flogged for her insolence. 

        The maid shrugged carelessly and set the chamber pot at her feet instead of in the close stool near the window. She was about the curse the girl to all seven hells when a thin knife appeared in her hand, the edge gleaming wickedly. She did not move to threaten her, only stared. 

        Cersei stared back, trying to find a matching image in her mind. She was young, so she couldn’t have worked in the Keep long. Perhaps she was some fool from the city who thought to place her woes at her queen’s feet, but that didn’t seem right. The girl spoke like she should know her. 

        Her gaze went to the door. The Unsullied guards were there; guards she knew ignored her curses and screams if they understood the Common Tongue at all. Perhaps if she fought hard enough, they would enter to see what was happening. Or not. It was entirely possible this was Daenerys’s plan all along: the grand gesture of pronouncing a trial, only to have her killed here and now, her death blamed on a commoner. 

        She gave a death’s head grin as her knees knocked together. “Get on with it.” Her heart clenched at the thought of her child dying before it ever drew breath, but she would not beg for her life. She was a Lannister, a lion, and lions did not beg. “Do your queen’s bidding so she can keep her hands clean. Tell her my brother said Aerys begged for his life like a child before he slit his throat.” 

        The former queen expected a reaction, a denial, something to say she was right, but the girl’s face could have been carved from stone. She only stood there, staring. 

        The girl shrugged. “I didn’t imagine you would. Not really.” She spoke as if Cersei’s words were nothing but air, her voice flat and distant. “You didn’t care about anyone but your precious son on the way to King’s Landing. Didn’t care who he hurt, or how he lied, so long as you got what you wanted.” 

        Slowly, her mind began to piece together an image. A girl with straight brown hair who always seemed underfoot. Grey eyes hate-filled and wild as she demanded the direwolf’s death. The small body that chased cats through the keep at all hours, until Stark or her septa finally leashed her. “Arya Stark,” her voice broke. It was impossible. The girl died when they slaughtered her father’s men. She always imagined Arya was killed by some overzealous soldier and her small body thrown into the sea or else buried beneath the other corpses. 

        A tick in the girl’s eyebrow was her only acknowledgment. 

        “You didn’t think of me at all after what happened, did you?” The phantom shifted without moving a muscle, her calm stance now poised to move. “I spent a lot of time thinking about you.” The knife tapped against her thigh. “For a long time, it was all I could do. Think of you and Joffrey. Meryn Trant. Illyn Payne. Think of what you did to my family. The things I planned to do to you if I ever had the chance.” 

        “Arya Stark is dead,” Cersei tried to fill her voice with surety, but it came out as little more than a croak. 

        The girl circled closer. “She is.” The Arya Stark of her memory was a clumsy thing, always bruised and scrapped, incapable of moving with grace. This girl moved like a dancer. “She died many times. In King’s Landing. On the King’s Road. At Harrenhall. In Braavos.” At the last something dark shifted behind her eyes, and Cersei suppressed a shudder. “Meryn Trant thought Arya Stark was dead, too. He didn’t like it when he learned the truth.” 

        The former queen felt her breath catch. Meryn Trant died in Braavos, bravely saving the life of Mace Tyrell when he was set upon by thieves. That was what she told the court and his family. A bare handful knew he’d been found in a brothel that catered to those with ‘special tastes’, his eyes gouged out and his throat slit. 

        Arya smiled then, though her eyes remained grey and lifeless. “I was going to kill you.” The knife flipped nimbly between her fingers as she examined the room. “Your name was on my list, always after Joffrey’s, but I think this is better. Everything you are, everything you were, everything you wanted…stripped away.” The girl moved so quickly Cersei barely registered it before she was at her throat, the blade resting just below her ear. “No more masks. No more faces. Just you.” The girl grinned, and the light that danced in her eyes was chilling. “You’re dead but you’re still breathing, and once the Dragon Queen has her way, you’ll die again.” 

        Cersei knew what death felt like. She’d died so many times. The night her mother died, screaming and blood-soaked as she and Jaime clung to each other. When Robert called her Lyanna as he rutted into her on their wedding night. When each of her children was taken from her by treachery from within and without. Death and more death, that was what her life had always been. “Why give her the satisfaction?” Cersei felt wild. “You’ve dreamed of this moment since you were a girl.” Gods knew if she ever held a knife to Tyrion’s throat, she wouldn’t hesitate. “Or are you too much of a coward to do it yourself?” 

        A man would have risen to the bait, slit her throat and let it be done, but the girl’s expression didn’t change; that smile still stretching her lips as her eyes brightened. “Too eager to watch you scream as the queen’s dragons roast you alive.” 

        Cersei closed her eyes as tears gathered. Jaime told her about Aerys. How long some of his victims screamed in agony as their flesh melted away. Of the smell of charred human meat, unmistakable for anything else. That was her fate. Cersei Lannister, former queen of the Seven Kingdoms, would be a pile of ash and bone once her so-called trial was done. 

        She could hear Maggy cackling, felt her finger prickle with the memory of a razor-sharp blade. _Another will come…younger…more beautiful… to cast you down and take all you hold dear…_

        After several moments of quiet, she opened her eyes. The girl was gone as if she’d never been, the only evidence of her the chamber pot sitting innocently on the floor. 

        Cersei’s knees gave out as she sobbed, one hand clutching at her womb while the other went to her throat. She could still feel the knife there, waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and reviewing!! I know I haven't been keeping up with answering, but I hope to catch up!
> 
> sk8ter gets all credit for kicking me into overdrive by mentioning Ser Jorah and making me go "... yeah, what about Ser Jorah?" He wasn't supposed to make an appearance until later, but he decided to jump in early. Which allowed me to introduce some other characters much better than I'd planned.  
> TheDeviantLord brought up Archmaester Marwyn, so that one's on you ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> [ House Mallister ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Mallister)  
> [ House Mooton ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Mooton)  
> [ House Piper ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/House_Piper)  
> [ River Kings ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/King_of_the_Trident)  
> [ Maester Vyman ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Vyman)  
> [ Tywin Frey ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Tywin_Frey)  
> [ Lyonel Frey ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Lyonel_Frey)  
> [ Green Fork ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Green_Fork)  
> [ Jonos Bracken ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Jonos_Bracken)  
> [ Selwyn Tarth ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Selwyn_Tarth)  
> [ Bayasabhad ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Bayasabhad)  
> [ Kayakayanaya ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Kayakayanaya)  
> [ Shamyriana ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Shamyriana)  
> [ Red Death ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Red_Death)  
> [ Naath ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Naath)  
> [ Lord of Harmony ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Lord_of_Harmony)  
> [ Rhaella Targaryen ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Rhaella_Targaryen)  
> [ Gerold Hightower ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Gerold_Hightower)  
> [ Rossart ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Rossart)  
> [ Rhaelle Targaryen ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Rhaelle_Targaryen)
> 
>  
> 
> I truly hated what they did to Edmure in the show. He was an able commander, the only one beside Robb to bloody Tywin's nose. He was a good man who craved validation and to be acknowledged as a hero like his father and uncle, but he was never a fool.
> 
> And... Arya enters the story, though she's actually been around for a while. Fair warning, she will _absolutely not_ be super warrior Arya in this story. She will have the abilities she should reasonably have for a girl her size and age with what training she's achieved, which in reality isn't very much. Is she sneaky? Absolutely. Will she knife you as soon as look at you if she feels justified? Of course.
> 
> And a question: Is there a preference for more frequent, but smaller updates, or keep with the longer updates that take more time?


	14. Interlude: Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drogon and their nestmates explore Dragonstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all!
> 
> Not a true chapter this time, I'm afraid. Just a little something that I've been having trouble finding a spot for, so I decided to post it as an interlude instead.
> 
> A big thank you to all my readers. Over 10,000 hits, 500 reviews, and 400 kudos guys! I'm truly humbled by how many of you are enjoying this little diddy. Thank you for all of your support!

        They did not like this place. 

        The flight towards the setting sun was long. Longer than any they’d taken before, even when their nestmates were locked away and Drogon was forced to explore on their own. They disliked how far they had to range away from Mother to find places to rest on the deep water, at times gone from her side for days just to find rocks with enough room for the three of them. Their journey took them to places they’d never seen; the fiery land where heat rose from the waters, its heart hidden by shadows and smoke. The rolling shores where the wind smelled of blood. When the ships stopped at a small piece of green land they wondered if they would remain there; if Mother’s far travels were finally done and this place of grasses and stone would be where they nested. 

        Their first weeks were spent exploring. Mother chose the great castle of stone as she always did, which left them to find their own nests as her people made the island theirs. The horse riders, Dothraki, sprawled over the island in a wave of tents that reminded them of a time when they could sit on Mother’s shoulder. There were other people on the island, people who screamed and ran when Drogon or their siblings came close, so they stayed away from the collection of huts that clung to the cliffs. Once Viserion landed nearby and nosed the buildings, learning the smell of those who lived there. Some smelled familiar, a faint trace of something in their blood, but it was thin and almost gone. The rest smelled of salt and fish. 

        There were better things to smell in their new home. Others lived there once; they smelled it in the tunnels clawed and carved into the cliffs and stony ground that wormed their way through the island. Rhaegal discovered a cave filled with bones that smelled of sheep and goat burrowed into the sheer cliffs far from the human village. It would be a good place to nest if needed; well isolated and difficult for humans to reach. Exploring the twisting ways kept them occupied while Mother planned. Most nights Drogon felt her worry gnawing at the back of their mind, constant until she smoothed into the blankness of sleep. Their journey was not done then, not yet. There was another step yet to take. 

        Drogon spread their wings and drifted on the drafts welling up from the great opening below, drifting further and further down while the others circled above. Liquid fire bubbled in the depths below, casting orange light onto the sheer stone walls. It was warmer closer to the burning and the smell of decay, of rot, was heavy on the hot air. They waited until their wings near brushed the glowing surface before they tilted a wing and swung hard towards the sheer walls. Drogon dug their claws into the stone, scrabbling for a moment as some crumbled beneath their weight. From here, the newly discovered opening was easier to see. It was large, but not so much so that landing inside it was possible. There were other markings there; old markings from one long since past that they paid no mind. 

        Once inside Drogon snorted. The interior smelled of old death. Bones lined the tunnel; long skulls unlike any they had seen before mixed in with the horned skulls of goats and the blunt skulls of men. They leaned down and examined a shape that was familiar. It was larger than the rest, horned and black. One of their kind, once, with large furrows dug into it from feeding. 

        A screech near the entrance drew their attention away. Rhaegal had entered the tunnel, and soon Viserion would follow. 

        Drogon followed the narrow passage until it opened onto a space large enough for them to spread their wings and have room to spare, had they desired. The cavern was dark, but slivers of sunlight drifted through cracks in the earth far above. The dragon purred deep in its chest. Finally, they were warm. Warm as they had not been since starting their journey towards the sunset. 

        Content, Drogon explored this haven. The smell of man was surprising here, but faint, and they tracked it to its source. Piled against a wall, furthest from the heat that poured from the tunnel were large chests. They eyed them curiously and sent the stack closest tumbling with a toss of their head. Two broke open. One spilled misshapen sacks onto the smooth ground soaked in the peculiar tang of metal. Shapes tumbled from the others. 

        Drogon approached cautiously as Viserion and Rhaegal announced their entrance. The shapes were wrapped in black cloth, that was the source of the man-smell, but there was another beneath it. A burst of flame reduced the coverings to ash and they leaned closer. Once the covering was burnt away two small, rough shapes were left. One was black, but green flared in its depths where a shaft of sunlight hit it. The other was pale as Mother’s hair, a vein the color of the sky at dawn running through it. Drogon sniffed the strange things before reeling back. They smelled of others. 

        They hissed and made to crush the shining ovals, but before it could be done Viserion moved between them, mouth open in silent challenge. Drogon roared, but the White would not back down, though it made no move to show dominance. Viserion’s neck was bent, teeth bared, wings furled tightly against their back. Drogon snapped, teeth an inch from their sibling’s neck, but Viserion would not give. They only crouched deeper, bending tighter but keeping their body between Drogon and the others. 

        Drogon turned to Rhaegal. The Green watched them from the mouth of the tunnel, gold eyes curious, but did nothing. 

        After long moments Drogon reared to their full height and roared, wings batting at the hot air before landing heavily and turning away. They glared at the rest of the chests but let them be for now. Rhaegal approached the sacks of metal, chirping curiously. Disgusted, Drogon turned and slithered into a tunnel that seemed to lead further down. Perhaps there was another cavern without such troublesome things in it. 

        They did not see Viserion uncurl from their protective crouch, snout gentle as they pushed the others to the edge of the cave, pressing them closer to the walls and heat with a loud, rumbling purr.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Dany may not have had time to explore much of the land of Dragonstone, but her children certainly have. And I always wondered... what better place to hide riches than in a volcano where literally only a Targaryen could reach? Screw combination vaults, the mouth of an active volcano is about as secure as you get. And with Targaryens, those riches can be spectacular indeed.
> 
> [Dragons ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Dragon#Characteristics) do not have a set gender in GRRM's universe, and I thought it a little disrespectful to call them "it", so I settled on 'they/their' instead. After all, dragons are either as intelligent or _more_ intelligent than men, and I can't imagine a person calling themselves "it".


	15. The Game is Afoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys deals with realities in King's Landing while Jon and Sansa prepare to separate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I apologize for the long wait between chapters. Real-life, work and a health scare dragged my attention away, but I'm back! Thanks for sticking with me! I will catch up to all your reviews soon :) This chapter will undergo more extensive editing in the near future. I just really wanted to get it out for you guys.

          Yara Greyjoy never imagined that she would be welcome in the Red Keep. 

          Though the Greyjoys were one of the oldest families in the Seven Kingdoms, their blood descended from the Grey King who killed the great Nagga and brought fire to man, they were seen as lesser. A house that oversaw little more than shit-stained rocks off the North-Western coast of the Realm. They weren’t blessed with precious metals the way the Westerlands were. Their islands were rich in iron, but little else; bare of trees and hard earth from which to coax their few crops. She preferred it that way. The Iron Islands didn’t give rise to cowards or weaklings the way the mainland did. Her people had little tolerance for either and those the islands didn’t kill the Ironborn themselves soon weeded out. Her journeys to the mainland, reaving or not, were often a disappointment. A land of riches filled with idiot peasants content with their hovels and spoiled lords cowering in their precious castles. She preferred the hard bunk of the Black Wind to a featherbed and the roll of the sea to the feel of solid ground beneath her feet. 

          Still, there was a certain decadence to the Red Keep she found appealing. 

          Every inch was designed to awe and intimidate; from the size of the towers to the color of the stone. Pyke was bare of artifice; its three castles designed for defense against the enemy with little care for luxuries. Luxuries that Yara found herself wondering how to integrate into her seat before she was distracted by the woman currently pacing a hole through the fine rug in her quarters. 

          Ellaria was beautiful in her rage. 

          The flush it brought to her face made her appear freshly fucked, and her eyes were bright, hard chips of fiery jet. She was a ship burning beneath a hot sun, and if Yara wasn’t already exhausted from her earlier duties she would pull the woman down to her sheets and make her scream her name. There was also the fact that her hands were slapped away once already when she tried. Best to let the woman pace out her anger, then be there with soft kisses when she was spent. 

          “Daenerys will never let Cersei live,” she tried to soothe, not for the first time. 

          Ellaria stopped so suddenly her hair floated forward for the barest of instants before turning those eyes on her. “She can’t control a tribunal.” 

          “She’s queen.” Yara shrugged. “She’ll appoint someone who doesn’t care about Cersei’s guilt or innocence; all they’ll care about is doing what she wants.” She smirked. “No matter who she put in those chairs, it’s what they’ll do, anyway.” God knew the mainlanders lived to suck the cocks of their betters, from peasants to lords. They would line up to declare Cersei Lannister guilty if that was what they felt the queen wanted. They had no spine beyond what they were taught they were given. Never did they try to find one for themselves. 

          That seemed to cool some of the other woman’s anger. She rocked back on her heels. “I should have found a way to slit that bitch’s throat myself before the city fell.” 

          “If you’re so worried, send the cunt a gift.” The captain raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you have several lined up and waiting.” 

          Ellaria rolled her eyes. “Daenerys will know it was me if Cersei dies.” 

          “Then give her something slow,” she pressed. “Something that mimics a fever. Aren’t your people supposed to specialize in poisons?” Even if the tales of the Dornish were false, Ellaria was once the lover of the Red Viper. She was sure the woman knew a thousand ways to kill without ever drawing a blade. “And what if she does suspect you? What can she do? She needs Dorne, Ellaria. Cersei isn’t worth breaking your alliance.” 

          A slow smile spread over her lover’s face and the woman swayed towards her. “You are a dangerous woman, Yara Greyjoy,” she all but purred. 

          Yara’s fingers curled into her hair and pulled her forward. “You’re just now realizing that?” 

          Ellaria’s smile was coy, and a different heat filled her gaze. “Perhaps I’m only just now appreciating how much.” 

  

          Finding Bronn wasn’t hard. All Tyrion had to do was search what brothels reopened their doors after Cersei destroyed the High Sparrow and his followers. A few hours work at best, and he found Ser Bronn of the Blackwater exactly where he thought he would; buried beneath a pile of beauties, a half-empty bottle of wine nearby. 

          Chataya’s weathered the storms of King’s Landing well from the look of it. The outside of the building lacked the red streamers that once marked it out from the other establishments on the Street of Silk. Her balconies were free of the scantily clad women who once enticed customers inside and the friezes of naked men and women writhing in lust were chipped away, but it and the street were still well-kept and clean. He was inside for barely a moment when Chataya herself greeted him, floating to him on a flower-scented breeze that reminded him of the height of summer. 

          “Lord Tyrion,” her smile was wide. “It is good to see you again.” 

          He returned her smile. “Good to see you as well.” His eyes scanned the interior. Chataya claimed that the design of her establishment was based on the Temple of Love, the holiest of the Summer Island temples. The dark, close interior filled with incense and statues of men and women engaged in all manner of debauchery was certainly titillating. 

          “Alayaya has missed you terribly,” Chataya said in her lilting voice. The dark-skinned woman folded arms all but lost in the shimmering fabric of her gown. “As have many of my girls.” 

          His eyes drifted to the selection of scantily clad women that occupied the main room. Several of whom he recognized. “And how is Alayaya?” 

          “At worship.” 

          He couldn’t help his short laugh. “If only everyone worshiped as you do.” 

          “You did once, whether you knew it or not.” She ran a hand over his shoulder, and he felt his blood heat. “Devoutly, one could say.” 

          “Sadly, those days are behind me.” His gaze flicked back to the girls. 

          Chataya frowned. “If you are not here for worship, then why are you here?” 

          “A friend,” he answered quickly. “Once who frequents your establishment.” 

          “Ah… Lord Bronn of the Blackwater.” Her smile returned, darker this time. “He is one of my better clients.” 

          The proprietress led him through the familiar silk draped corridors before stopping in front of one of the more ornate doors, the familiar sound of feminine laughter drifting from behind it, followed by Bronn’s distinctive voice. 

          He pulled out a small bag of coin, which she took readily before striding down the hall. 

          _You do know the meaning of a closed door in a whorehouse?_ Remembering the question to his brother almost made him laugh before regret turned it to ash in his throat. That trip to Winterfell occurred a lifetime ago. 

          With a shake of his head, Tyrion rushed through the door. 

          Bronn wasn’t alone, or even with a single whore. Three women were on the oversized bed; two to either side and one sitting astride him. The wide grin on his face dropping once he realized who entered. 

          “No.” 

          The blonde giggled at the flatness of Bronn’s word. The one in his lap looked impatiently between the two of them, waiting to see if she would have to finish him off. 

          Tyrion took another step into the room and let the door close behind him. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you.” 

          “If it involves Halen gettin’ off my cock, the answer’s no.” He leaned forward and took the peak of her breast in his mouth. 

          Tyrion sighed. Dealing with Bronn was ever easy. “When you’ve had your fill, come to the Red Keep. I’ll assume you’ve kept your old rooms?” He’d have to convince the Unsullied to let an obvious sell sword inside. “Try to make it before sundown.” 

* * *

          They would need to hire a stonemason when he came back North. 

          Jon stared into the space that held Rickon’s remains, trying to ignore the rhythmic clenching of his heart. He remembered the expression his little brother wore in his last moments. The terror that slowly morphed into hope the closer they came to each other. The surprise when Bolton’s arrow pierced his chest. The confusion as his life slipped away; boy murdered before his eleventh nameday. A casualty on a battlefield not of his making. The only one of Ned Stark’s trueborn sons to make his way to his rightful place in Winterfell’s crypts. 

          He always felt uncomfortable here. The crypts of Winterfell were sprawling and deep, filled with generations of dead Starks. Back to Bran the Builder according to legend, though no one knew as the lowest levels of the crypts collapsed millennia ago. The only times he ventured into the depths as a child were when he and Robb were about some mischief. Too often he dreamed of getting lost in the winding corridors while searching for something he couldn’t name, the statues of his father’s ancestors whispering that he didn’t belong as his torch grew dim and cold crept into his bones. Reminding him that he wasn’t a Stark. He would wake up sweat-soaked, his muscles aching and chest heaving from them. 

          The crypts were alight now. He knew Sansa made sure that at least one candle was lit at each tomb on this level every night. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that a great wind coughed up from the depths would sweep through and blow the candles out, leaving him in darkness. 

          “I thought I’d find you here.” 

          Jon half-turned as Sansa strode down the long hall. She wore the velvet dress she made to confront Ramsay, the direwolf across her breast sparkling in the candlelight. It was less severe than the dresses she’d taken to wearing since they reclaimed Winterfell; a painful reminder of the girl she once was. The woman she might have been. 

          She came to a stop next to him. There was no statue to mark where Rickon lay entombed, only a collection of frostfires, blue roses and candles surrounding the slender blade he had made by Orrick, their new smith. A blade fitting for a young boy not yet a man, wider than the one he had forged for Arya all those years ago. The grip was bone wrapped in leather in remembrance of the Free Folk woman who protected him. 

          “You couldn’t have saved him, Jon,” his sister said softly. “Ramsay would have made sure of it.” She all but spat the name 

          His eyes closed for a moment. “You don’t know that.” 

          “I do.” She kept her eyes fixed on the bare space before them. “If it wasn’t the arrow, it would have been poison or illness. I knew Ramsay. He wouldn’t have let Rickon go if he thought there was the smallest chance he might survive. He would have tipped the odds in his favor some way. Letting him run to you… that was just his version of entertainment.” 

          His stomach soured at the thought of Rickon surviving the battle, only to die by an unknown poison or illness. Burning from fever or writhing in agony while they looked on, helpless. 

          “He liked to torment people,” she continued. “Liked to find their weaknesses and play with them. See how far he could push before you broke.” Her voice cracked on the last word. “Believe me, I know.” 

          It was the most he’d ever heard her speak of her former husband. 

          “We’ll need someone to carve his effigy.” He looked to the right, where their father’s statue stood. It was only a rough approximation of Eddard Stark, carved by someone who never saw the man up close. The last time Rickon was in Winterfell he was little more than a babe, not the coltish boy who ran so desperately to him across a battlefield. No one remembered his face well enough to convey it to a stonemason, and he had no ability with drawing. 

          “Maester Wolkan says the timing is excellent for your journey,” she said briskly. 

          Jon nodded. “We’ve a break in the weather that should hold for at least a week if he’s right. I’ll write once we make White Harbor.” 

          She heaved in a breath and turned fully to him. “Jon-” 

          “I know, Sansa.” 

          Her expression turned mulish. “You know what?” she challenged. 

          “To be smart,” he said the words with a soft smile. “To not let my emotions cloud my judgment or be taken in by empty promises or a pretty face.” 

          Her eyebrow arched. “I believe my words were pretty arse.” 

          His smile widened. He near choked the first time she said it. “That, too.” He had no intention of falling for either. 

          They stood silently in front of Rickon’s tomb, remembering a brother neither really had a chance to know. In his mind their brother was still little more than a toddler, clinging to Lady Stark’s skirts when he wasn’t lofted on Robb’s shoulders. 

          “Come back,” Sansa said the words without looking at him, her eyes fixed. 

          Jon stepped closer to her and pressed a kiss to her temple. _I promise._ The words stuck in his throat. Promises meant little to his sister now. Too many of them were broken already. 

          She gave him a timid, watery smile before leaving him alone once more. 

* * *

          The concept of ladies in waiting was as foreign to Daenerys as dragons were to Westeros. 

          The first time she was asked about such a thing by Lady Stokeworth, it caught her off guard. She understood that there was such a thing as a lady in waiting. Viserys often spoke of their mother’s ladies when they were children, but only in the vaguest of terms; this one carried hard candies on her person and was liberal with handing them out. That one was more like to correct his mistakes herself than report them to his mother. This one was prone to reporting his every movement to the queen. 

          “But what do they do?” she asked Missandei. 

          Her friend blinked. “I believe the intent is to give the queen companions, Your Grace,” she said the words slowly, a sign that she was unsure. “From my understanding, queens of Westeros were not active in the affairs of the kingdom beyond small projects. Queen Margaery made a point to give to orphanages and visited them often both before and after her crowning. Though there is no record of any cause championed by Cersei, Queen Rhaella was known to assist widows with her monthly allowance.” 

          Daenerys wrinkled her nose. “Assigned friends.” 

          “They can also serve as private messengers and keepers of your correspondence.” 

          “I have servants enough for that.” She gave her friend a fond smile. “If I’m to have a lady in waiting, the position is already filled.” 

          Missandei returned her smile. “And as always, I am honored. But I would suggest you consider adding others. It is a high honor in Westeros to be chosen. It signals an increase in a lady’s status at court, to be so close to the queen. It can also be a valuable way to gain allies.” 

          _Or hostages._ What better way to keep an unruly lord or kingdom in line than taking a daughter and keeping her at court in a gilded cage? 

          Just thinking about it made her miss the easy companionship of Irri and Jhiqui. The women may have been given to her as slaves, but their friendship grew into something true before it was cut short in Qarth. 

          She needed more information on the subject. 

          The manse Ellaria maintained outside the Red Keep was a beautiful thing. The stone façade was almost indistinguishable from any of the others occupied by lesser lords and merchants save for the spear-pierced sun of Dorne carved above the gates. 

          Inside the walls was a riot of color: tiled fountains and trees in brightly colored pots dominated the main courtyard. Swaths of material that would no doubt provide much welcome shade in the heat of summer drifted lazily from the roofs to the pale pink stones of the courtyard. The walls themselves were covered with intricate carvings, or else in tiles that made complex geometric patterns unlike anything she’d ever seen. 

          It was here that Ellaria and her daughters spent their time. Aside from her appearance at Cersei’s initial hearing and their few meetings, she saw little of the Dornish woman. Nymeria was most often at court, charming the lords with her easy smiles and silken words. Perhaps too charming, if Varys’s reports of her trysts held truth. Obara spent the majority of her time with the Unsullied training and seemed as averse to court as her sister was to enjoy it. Tyene, the youngest, had yet to make a formal appearance. 

          Daenerys and Missandei were guided to a warm solar and plied with hot spiced wine as they waited, though it wasn’t for very long. The honey was just beginning to temper the heat on her tongue when Ellaria swept into the room, followed by Tyne and Nymeria. 

          “To what do I owe this visit, Your Grace?” Ellaria asked as she settled on a low, backless couch. Tyene settled on a pile of pillows and nibbled delicately on a pastry while Nymeria watched with dark eyes. “Have you decided to forgo a trial for the Lannister bitch?” 

          Daenerys sighed internally. “She has more than a week left to prepare her witnesses. So far, only three have responded to her calls.” 

          Ellaria’s smile was dagger sharp before it melted into something more inviting. “Then what can I do for the Mother of Dragons?” 

          She laid out her problem carefully, remembering her discussion with Missandei. She hated admitting that she had few she could trust from Westeros itself, but her friend was right: she needed to appear more Westerosi to her lords, less foreign, lest her enemies take advantage and rebellion begin to foment at her strange ways. 

          She and Ellaria were just beginning to discuss the issue when Tyene excused herself. Daenerys assumed that talk of court intrigue was not to her liking. Of all her daughters, the youngest seemed the wildest, the most like her mother. The girl caused a brawl between three Dothraki while she and her sisters were on Dragonstone. A brawl Tyene ended herself when she decided she wanted none of them and rose to leave, only to be stopped by the victor. Daenerys was never able to get the full truth of the tale; her men were too drunk by the time the fighting broke out, but she knew that the man attempted to carry the Dornishwoman off and ended with a dagger in his neck for his efforts. 

          When Tyene reappeared behind a group of servants carrying trays of food and wine, she almost didn’t recognize her. 

          The woman in front of her was far and away from the wild girl that seemed to invite trouble wherever she ran. Tyene’s short hair fell in dark, gentle waves around her face, making it appear fuller, softer. The effect was compounded by the lack of kohl around her eyes and the pink that tinged her lips and cheeks. Instead of a heavy jacket and trousers, she wore a gown of lilac samite. The neckline of the dress was embroidered with pale silk flowers and clung tightly to her shoulders, leaving their upper slopes and the column of her throat bare. The dress flowed from there and clung to her figure as she moved, but settled innocently, almost formlessly, when still. The effect was of a gown hanging on by the thin embroidery at her shoulders, a band that could fail at any moment and leave her nude. Myrish lace spilled from the capped sleeves of the gown, and a heavy stole was at her elbows. In such bright colors, she appeared a maid of summer, innocent and pure… until she smiled. “Do you approve, Your Grace?” 

          Daenerys raised an eyebrow and turned to Ellaria. 

          “You wanted to gain knowledge of the court, Your Grace,” Nymeria explained. “I think you’ll find Tyene very adept at ferreting out information. It’s her face,” she sighed with a sharp smirk. “It hides how much of a bitch she is.” 

          Tyene’s gaze sharpened on her sister before it went soft. Her smile was sweet, but her tone blade-sharp. “We see most clearly in others that which we find in ourselves.” 

          Daenerys blinked. Even her voice was lighter, missing most of the Dornish lilt. “They will know she is from Dorne.” 

          “But what does the court know of Dorne and its women?” Ellaria asked. “To the ladies at court, we are whores come to steal their husbands and poison their daughters.” She gestured to where Nymeria sprawled in her complicated gown made of layers of sand-washed silk, a glass of wine in hand. “Tyene will be your first lady in waiting; a boon to Dorne for our assistance in helping you reclaim your throne. The lords and ladies will see sweet, simple Tyene and try to take her under their wing, hoping she will give them information they can use. Information you control.” 

          The Dragon Queen examined the girl with a critical eye. “Why not Nymeria? She already has a presence in the Red Keep.” 

          “Too much of one.” Ellaria cast the older girl a warm smile that was readily returned. “Even you know when to bow to Westerosi custom. Nymeria will be suitably put out, having missed such an opportunity. Obara spends all her time with the Unsullied, learning new and better ways to wield her spear. I am still seething from your insistence on Cersei receiving a trial.” Her eyes flashed, and it was clear there was more than a little truth behind her words. “Tyene is so vulnerable; a young girl in the capital, abandoned by her sisters and mother to the Dragon Queen’s whims.” 

          Daenerys watched as Tyene changed before her eyes. The girl’s sweet smile went melancholy at the edges, some of the brightness left her eyes. By the time Ellaria finished speaking she was the picture of dejection; a child waiting for someone to rescue her from her fate. 

          Tyrion and Varys were less than pleased with the notion. 

          “For centuries the royal court has had ladies in waiting,” Daenerys said. “Both of you constantly remind me that I must appear as Westerosi as possible to put my lords at ease. This seems one of the easier ways to do so.” 

          “It is also one of the easier ways to gain information about you, Your Grace,” Varys said. “Ladies in waiting serve the Queen, but the secrets they learn can and are often bought for coin.” 

          “Do you speak from experience, Lord Varys?” she asked archly. 

          He gave her an empty smile. “As Master of Whispers it is my duty to be privy to the secrets of the monarchy, Your Grace. Especially those they wish to hide from me.” 

          _Then how were you unaware of the truth of Cersei’s children?_ It was a question that would remain unanswered. For now. 

          This was her life now. Perhaps she should surround herself with the Dothraki women who braved the poison water for her. They at least would not betray her confidences. She gave her Spymaster a knowing stare. “Is there someone you suggest as one of these ladies I’m to allow in my company in her place?” 

          He gave the barest hint of a smile. “At least one. Lady Taena Merryweather, Your Grace.” 

          “Taena… that doesn’t sound like a Westerosi name.” 

          “Because it isn’t.” Varys leaned forward. “Lady Merryweather is of Myrish extraction. She married Lord Orton Merryweather while he was in exile after the Rebellion. Both arrived at court and have rallied behind your every decision.” 

          Orton Merryweather. She remembered the man. He was tall, almost as tall as Drogo, with a shock of curling, red-orange hair and a truly unfortunate nose. In her memory, his wife was a small thing beside him, dark of hair and eye and dressed in Westerosi finery. 

          “Orton’s grandfather was Hand to your father. Exiled for being unable to stop Robert’s Rebellion before it engulfed the kingdoms,” Tyrion finished. “He stripped the family of their holdings for his failure. They were restored by Jon Arryn in Robert’s name.” 

          The grandson of her father’s former Hand made a lord again by the very man who usurped him. “And are we sure of her allegiance?” 

          “Nothing is certain, Your Grace, but she does come with a substantial benefit: Lady Taena was a confidant of Cersei before her arrest by the High Sparrow and left King’s Landing shortly after. It is likely she will be willing to testify against her former queen.” 

          “In exchange for position at court.” She almost shook her head at the temerity of it. 

          Tyrion cleared his throat. “She need not lie,” he attempted to placate. “The Court will ask her questions, and she will answer honestly. I think it telling that Cersei has not requested her as a witness.” 

          Daenerys breathed deeply. “And how would I go about formally inviting Lady Taena into my confidence?” 

  

“You’re still alive.” 

          Bronn sounded cheerful as he swaggered into Tyrion’s solar just after sunset. The sellsword settled into a chair and leaned back in his seat, eyebrows raised. 

          “So are you.” That fact shocked him, really. “I thought Cersei would have had your head on a pike, considering you were an associate of mine.” 

          The other man shrugged. “I’m an associate to anyone has the gold to pay me. Your sister knew that.” 

          Tyrion sat across from him. Bronn was wearing clothes much in the style he did when he’d first found him; sturdy leather and wool, not the velvets he’d last seen him in. “I understand your marriage to Lollys fell through after my escape.” 

          Bronn’s eye ticked. “She was too sweet for me, anyway. She’s married to some Riverland knight.” 

          Lollys was a touch simple, Tyrion thought with a grimace. Simple and sweet, far too much so for Bronn, though he imagined he would have tried to be a good husband to her. “And you’re still without a castle.” 

          “You’re Hand of the Queen. Seems to me there’s a lot of castles what need a lord.” His eyes brightened. “What about Highgarden?” 

          Tyrion chuckled. “I’m afraid Olenna Tyrell might have something to say about that.” 

          “What? I’d make a decent woman of her.” 

          “You would marry Olenna Tyrell?” Tyrion couldn’t keep the wonder out of his voice. 

          Bronn shrugged. “If it means Highgarden, why not? Give the old girl a few good memories to take to the seven hells.” 

          Tyrion stared. “She’s old enough to be your grandmother.” 

          “Fucked plenty of grandmothers.” 

          He pushed that image away. He didn’t want to imagine grandmothers fucking. He certainly didn’t want to imagine Olenna Tyrell fucking. “Highgarden is out of the question. Perhaps Storm’s End.” 

          “Last I heard some of Stannis’s men were hold up there, waiting for the man to be resurrected,” Bronn’s tone said exactly how he felt about that. “Besides, don’t it belong to his daughter?” 

          Tyrion looked away. “No one has been able to locate Lady Shireen. The last word anyone had was she went North with her mother and father.” Stannis was a fool to bring his wife and child into a warzone, but he didn’t think he was enough of a fool to bring them to the battle that claimed him. There was a chance the girl was sheltering with a northern house or with the King in the North himself. 

          Bronn leaned back in his chair and eyed him. “So… that’d be a no on Storm’s End. You’re not here to give me a castle.” He drank deeply. “Who is it?” 

          “Who?” 

          The other man raised his arms. “The one needs killing.” 

          Tyrion scoffed and offered him another cup of wine. “Can’t a man visit an old friend? We haven’t seen each other in years.” 

          “Aye, a man can visit an old friend,” Bronn agreed. “But you ain’t the visiting kind.” 

          The Hand of the Queen gave a small smile. “No, I’m not.” 

* * *

          Jon was gone. 

          Sansa forced the thought away as she went about her duties. Winterfell felt…different now. Emptier, as if he’d taken something vital from their home when he rode away. He couldn’t have chosen a better day to make the journey to White Harbor. The skies were clear, the air biting but calm; the first true break in the snows that pummeled them for weeks. A part of her wanted to climb the ramparts and watch the small party from the walls, but she refused to give in to the desire. She stood at her perch on the gallery until the gates closed behind his party then forced her chin up and gave one of the stable boys a small smile before moving. It wouldn’t do for the Lady of Winterfell and Princess of the North to appear overly concerned at her brother’s absence. It would cause doubt in her ability to lead, doubt she was sure Littlefinger would capitalize on. 

          As if her thoughts conjured him, she ran into the regent of the Vale as he walked through the main bailey. For the first time, he looked less than completely put together. The cloth as his neck was rumpled, and he ran a hand down his doublet as if attempting to repair some damage. Specks of pale dust clung to his cape. “Lord Baelish,” she acknowledged. 

          “Princess Sansa.” He sounded entirely too pleased to address her so. 

          She let her gaze wander over him. “Are you well, my Lord?” 

          He gave her a rueful smile. “Your half-brother is very protective of you.” 

          She met it with her coolest gaze. “A brother should protect his sister, my lord. It is one of his duties, after all. Moreso if that brother is a king.” 

          His smile sharpened. “I’m afraid I may have upset him before he left to treat with the Dragon Queen.” 

          “Upset him how, Lord Baelish?” 

          He came closer to her, so close she could smell the mint on his breath. They were in the middle of the main bailey, yet she felt crowded into a corner. “I followed him into the crypts. I only wished to speak to him before he rode out, since being granted an audience has been all but impossible.” His hand went to his throat with a grimace. “I was unaware that only Starks were allowed there.” 

          Sansa’s mind raced. If Jon laid hands on him, it was for more than trespassing in the crypts. She let concern creep into her voice. “What did Jon do?” 

          Petyr’s smile was rueful. “I told him that I loved you.” 

          Her surprise at his confession was genuine. 

          “Let’s just say, he made his feelings concerning you very clear.” 

          Her thoughts went to the days after she first heard the rumor about them. When a group of Valemen passed too close to her on her way to the Great Hall. They were perfectly polite, but there was something about the way the eyes of one lingered on her. It was all she could do to keep her composure until she made it to the safety of her chambers. When Jon found her there hours later her hands were shaking. She could still see Jon’s face, expression hardening into stone. _Any man touches you; any man looks at you with less than the respect you deserve, I’ll kill them._ “I apologize on behalf of my brother and king, Lord Baelish,” she said, tone formal. 

          “And I accept,” he responded, concern beneath his tone. “Though I wonder why he would respond in such a way. Nothing I said was meant to offend.” 

          Sansa looked away. She was almost certain that Petyr was the source of the rumors concerning her and Jon. Surely, he didn’t think she would acknowledge them. “Jon is concerned for my welfare, my lord. He understands how the…attentions… of men affect me.” She hated to admit to such a weakness, especially to Littlefinger, but she trusted it would make him retreat. 

          “I would never hurt you, Sansa.” He stepped closer. “Surely you know that. I’ve done so much, risked so much, to protect you.”

          _Done what you planned and risked only that which you were willing to lose._

          Movement caught her attention. A group of ladies walked sedately through the bailey closer to the Keep. Two averted their eyes when she noticed their regard, but not quickly enough. “And I am grateful for that, Lord Baelish.” She started walking. It would not do to be seen standing about. 

          He fell into step with her. “Will you ever call me Petyr?” 

          _Never._ She ducked her head. “It wouldn’t be proper, my Lord.” She gave a small nod and turned to make her way to the stables. She planned on riding to the Free Folk encampment with Brienne within the hour. If Jon was successful in negotiating the dragonglass away from Dragonstone they needed those who knew how to work it into weapons, and she’d seen one of the men carrying a knife that appeared to be made of stone. 

          “Even now, I can see so much of Cat in you.” There was amusement in his voice and a fondness that was too familiar for her comfort. “She was the perfect lady in so many ways.” 

          “She was. I can only hope to follow in her example.” Sansa froze when his hand circled her wrist, her feet rooted to the ground as if by a spell. 

          “I meant what I said to him, Sansa,” his words were rushed, almost feverish. “I love you, more than I would have thought possible. More than I’ve ever loved anyone.” 

          She fought down the urge to pull away and only cast a pointed look at his hand. Petyr’s grip tightened so slightly she almost thought she’d imagined it before releasing her. “Forgive me.” 

          “There is nothing to forgive, Lord Baelish.” She drew herself up to her full height, happy when he frowned. He hated that she could look him in the eye, though he hid it well. It manifested itself in a flash behind his eyes, something she never noticed until discerning Ramsay’s quicksilver moods became her only means of survival. “My brother only wishes to see me safe from those who would harm me. I apologize if his reaction to your confession was less than polite.” 

          “And once again, I accept.” 

          She turned to leave, and he followed. “I wish our meeting had gone differently. I planned to ask if he would delay his journey south for a few days, perhaps a week or so, so that I could travel with him to White Harbor. I must procure a ship to take me to the Eyrie.” 

          That stopped her. “You mean to leave Winterfell?” There was no faking the concern in her voice. 

          “I’m afraid that with a new queen in the south, Robyn needs me now more than ever. He is still young yet to deal with such a delicate political situation.” His face fell. “The Vale’s main protection is the Bloody Gate, and as you so eloquently stated, it will not withstand dragon fire.” 

          “I would have spoken to Jon myself had I known, Lord Baelish.” She would have asked Jon to delay if only to give the Dragon Queen time to make whatever deals she needed with Robyn before Petyr could interfere. 

          “I know you would have, my sweet.” The term of endearment curdled her stomach. “But I didn’t wish to come between you and our King, not with how much opposition he’s faced during his rule.” 

          Opposition she knew stemmed from him, even if she couldn’t yet prove it. 

          Something must have crept into her features because his expression shifted. “You needn’t worry that I will leave you unprotected. I only mean to take a small contingent of men with me when I go. Lord Royce will remain here, along with several other lords of the Vale.” 

          He wouldn’t leave himself blind. “The North thanks you for your continued support, Lord Baelish.” 

          “It is my fervent wish to see you safe, Princess.” 

          She heard the crunch of feet behind her. “Princess Sansa?” A deep voice called behind her. 

          “Lord Mollen,” she said as she turned. Their Master of Laws stood a short distance away, his heavy cloak making him look more bear than man. “Princess, we are ready for the afternoon petitioners.” 

          Sansa turned to Petyr with a coy smile only slightly frozen at its edges. “Duty calls, my lord.” 

          “Of course.” Petyr lifted her hand and kissed it. Through the glove the feel of his lips seared. “Princess.” 

* * *

          Westeros was a strange land. 

          Missandei walked the halls of the Red Keep alone as was her wont. The Westerosi soldiers bowed to her as she passed, as did several of the lords and ladies though it was apparent which did so only grudgingly. She would prefer being ignored to their false respect. The Unsullied stood their posts or performed their patrols with no acknowledgment for anyone, as was only proper. Distractions, even minor ones, could mean the difference between life and death. 

          As she walked, she thought about her new home. The Red Keep was not as massive as the Great Pyramid of Mereen, nor its history as rich. The architecture also left much to be desired in her mind. The halls of the Great Pyramid were large, and with the exception of balconies and verandas entirely enclosed. One could spend days in its depths and never see sunlight beyond what little filtered through the windows. Many of the galleries of the Red Keep were open to the elements, and it took time to learn which would find her stepping through a door to find herself shivering. 

          There was a beauty to it, she supposed. It was far and away from the spare and austere architecture of Dragonstone but compared to the cities and structures of Essos it was…small. Small, and young in a way she had not known a place could be. Astapor was a city that survived millennia, its age visible in every stone. The Yellow City of Yunkai was built by the Ghiscari of old, its sacred foundations laid by the First Empire itself before Westeros was known by the First Men. 

          Still, this was the homeland of her friend, the woman who struck the chains from her throat, and Missandei was determined to find ways to love it as she did. 

          She was on her way to one such way now. 

          The quarters given to Grey Worm were luxurious in a way that was foreign to them both. His pallet at Dragonstone was nothing in comparison. In truth, he would have preferred to bed down with his men in the barracks. Though the Unsullied had commanders among them, traditionally their leaders were allowed no luxuries, nothing to differentiate them from the men they led. Her love had the feather mattress removed and replaced with one stuffed with wool after the first night, as well as many of the furnishings. 

          Her knock was light, but it took bare moments to be answered. 

          “Come.” 

          Grey Worm sat as he often did at the end of the day; hands carefully going over his armor and weapons, checking for signs of wear or places that needed mending. He stood when he saw it was her. “Missandei.” 

          Her eyes went to his breastplate where the thick leather was scored. There was a riot at the gates to the city granaries the day before. Four Unsullied were killed along with nine members of the City Watch, and twelve injured as they moved grain and dried goods to the many kitchens being set up to relieve the worst of the hunger in the city. Her hand hovered over the binding on his arm. The cut was not deep, but it was enough. 

          “I am well, Missandei.” 

          “The wound does not pain you?” 

          “No more than any other.” His hand gripped hers. “And you?” 

          She let out the sigh she’d held in all day. The way petitioners were dealt with was different in Westeros. Initially, Daenerys attempted to use the same protocol as she did in Meereen: those who arrived first were seen to first until such time as they were finished or other duties took her away. Varys and Tyrion were the first to balk at such a thing. They insisted that the Westerosi nobility be allowed to voice any grievances before the smallfolk, a state of affairs Daenerys agreed to only when Lord Celtigar pointed out that many of the lords would need to return to their seats before the weather worsened, making their needs greater than those of the smallfolk who often came from the surrounding countryside. 

          Grey Worm nodded in silent agreement. “This is a strange place.” 

          “It is her home,” Missandei countered. “We are strangers. In time, it will be our home as well.” She filled her voice with certainty. They survived the hell of Astapor and the long march through Slaver’s Bay. They stood by their queen as she brought freedom to those who’d never known it. Certainly, they would grow used to the ways of Westeros. 

          Her words seemed to agitate her love. “I do not understand these people. They starve, and they blame the Queen.” Grey Worm’s face twisted. “She feeds them, and they demand more.” 

          “Things will settle,” she soothed. “The people here are hungry and afraid.” 

          “All people are hungry and afraid, Missandei of Nath.” He reached up and tangled his fingers with hers. 

          They were. But perhaps Daenerys could help those in Westeros be less so. 

  

          This was not a meeting he looked forward to. 

          A host riding with mixed Lannister and Frey banners was spotted on the road early in the afternoon, and Tyrion knew there were few who would dare ride with such in the current political landscape. He buried his first inclination of meeting them on the road as he had the delegation from Dorne years ago. Then he only faced a potential political nightmare that could sink the lower kingdoms into chaos, spearheaded by a prince that was more likely to poison any Lannister in his immediate vicinity than break bread with them. 

          He was not prepared to face his aunt. 

          The main courtyard was filled with mounted men and the Lannister wheelhouse. Cousin Daven was easily spotted among the mounted men. His golden hair and beard were still long and stood out among the clean-shaven cheeks and short hair of his fellow soldiers, his smile bright despite the road dust when he laid eyes on his cousin. His hair almost blended with the fox-fur of his cloak. “Tyrion!” His cousin dismounted smoothly, the lion on his armor glinting in the weak afternoon sunlight. 

          He almost sounded pleased to see him. “Cousin Daven.” 

          For the first time since Daven discovered he was strong enough to, he didn’t lift Tyrion off his feet. Instead, he extended a hand. One that Tyrion took willingly. “How fares the Westerlands?” 

          “Bracing for winter,” Daven answered, eyes bright. “The passes were cursed by the Stranger himself. No one’s seen snow that deep for fifty years, at least.” Tyrion’s eyes went to the wheelhouse. “I trust the journey was otherwise uneventful.” 

          The door to the wheelhouse swung open before his cousin could reply. Never let it be said his aunt lacked a flair for the dramatic. 

          She hadn’t changed much over the years. The black of mourning was relieved by small nods to their house. Muted red and gold embroidery traced an intricate pattern on the bodice of her gown, and a ruby ring graced the smallest finger on her left hand. 

          With a swallow that echoed in his ears, he started forward. “Aunt Genna.” 

          She drew up every inch of her slight height. Her gaze went to the Unsullied standing guard behind him. “Lord Hand.” 

          The cold use of his formal title was a shock. In his memory, she always said his name with such warmth. He mustered up a pleasant if bland smile and gestured for them to enter the keep proper as porters began unloading their luggage. 

          Tyrion gestured. “My lord, my lady, if you will follow me, I’ll see you to your rooms.” He waited until they were passing through the corridors to speak again. “The petitioning is finished for the afternoon,” he informed them as they walked. “If you wish to formally swear fealty to Queen Daenerys it will be done during court tomorrow.” 

          Genna let out a small sound. 

          “Tell me, cousin: is the Queen as beautiful as they say?” Daven asked jovially as they walked, smiling at two ladies as they passed in the opposite direction. The younger of the two giggled and pressed closer to her friend. Even worn and dirty from the road, his cousin had that effect on the fairer sex. 

          “Moreso, I would imagine.” He’d heard the bard’s tales of Daenerys’s beauty: eyes the color of fine jewels, hair like moonlight and skin finer than the rarest silk from the East. 

          “I’m sure there is also a brain somewhere beneath her beauty?” Genna’s tone was scathing. 

          He fought the urge to grimace. “I rather think you’ll like her, Aunt. After all, so few women are as blessed as you to possess both.” 

          The stone façade cracked for just a moment, and merriment danced in his aunt’s eyes. 

          Once his cousin was seen to his rooms, with a promise to join him for their evening meal, he turned to his aunt. 

          “I would speak with you, nephew.” Her tone brooked no argument. 

          He could have sighed. “Of course.” 

          The journey to the Tower of the Hand was silent without Daven’s constant commentary. He knew his aunt. Knew she was taking in everything; the patrols of Unsullied mixed with Westerosi soldiers. The constant movement of servants and sculleries. The number of petty lords that haunted every corner. The Red Keep was never truly empty, and with so many lords and ladies come to swear allegiance to their new queen and vie for position at court, it was quickly filling up. 

          It was a relief when he closed the door to his rooms behind them. So much so he almost wasn’t prepared for the slap he received when he turned to face her. 

          It wasn’t as strong as it could have been. He knew from experience that his aunt could send him reeling to the floor when she had a mind to. This one was just sharp enough; painful, but not so hard it drew blood. “I suppose I deserved that,” he said mildly. 

          His aunt folded her arms beneath her prodigious bosom and stared down at him, green eyes sharp as cut glass. “You suppose, do you?” 

          “In my defense, he did try to kill me first.” Tyrion walked over to his desk and sat heavily. “I was simply doing what he always admonished: finishing what I start.” 

          “He was your father.” 

          “I know.” He looked down. His aunt’s eyes weren’t the same shade as her brother’s. Genna’s were a deep green, the color so rich it was clear from across the room, but he felt his father was staring at him all the same. “He would have seen me dead for a crime he knew I didn’t commit because he hated me. He always hated me.” For a thing he had no control over. That wasn’t his fault. Why not blame the maester? The midwife? It was their duty to see his wife safely through her childbed. “He saw his chance to be rid of me and took it. I did the same.” 

          The hard set of her shoulders eased at his words, as did the stubborn tilt of her jaw. “My brother was a fool,” Genna said slowly. “And like all fools, his foolishness cost him his life.” 

          “You believe me then?” He cursed the hopefulness in his voice. 

          “That you didn’t kill Joffrey?” She snorted. “I raised you to be smarter than that, though you needed little help. Handing a king a poisoned cup in front of hundreds of witnesses isn’t the way to depose a monarch. It’s the way to die alongside him.” 

          “That was my defense, as well. I imagine the spectacle of a kingslayer who was also a kinslayer was too entertaining to let little things like reason and common sense interfere.” The lies told by his would-be confidants still rung in his ears at times, far louder than those told by Cersei’s puppets. 

          The stain of his actions, both real and imagined, would always be there. Varys kept him apprised of the rumors that circled him. Some even whispered that he killed Joffrey and his father both to make way for Daenerys’s return, never mind he hadn’t met the woman until near half a year after he left Westeros. He imagined that if he returned to Westeros without his queen a fair number would have seen him hanged or wearing a black cloak for one or the other. 

          Genna settled into the chair across from him. “And Cersei? Jaime?” 

          “Alive. Both of them.” For now. 

          “There were rumors of a trial.” 

          “For Cersei, yes.” He’d yet to visit his sister in her tower room. There was nothing to be said between them. She’d always hated him, believed he killed her son and knew he murdered their father. One of the Unsullied reported that she often spoke to herself of him having a hand in Myrcella’s death. She was more like to attempt to claw his eyes out than share a civil word with him. 

          “And your brother? There is no news of a trial for him.” 

          “Currently enjoying similar hospitality to our sister’s.” No one was more surprised than he was to learn Daenerys had his brother moved one of the rooms above the Small Hall. Still heavily guarded, of course, but anything was better than languishing in the Black Cells. “Likely to be given the choice between the headsman and the Wall once she feels like offering it.” 

          Some of the rigidness went out of her at that. “Do you think he’ll take it?” 

          Tyrion walked to the small side table and poured himself and his aunt a generous glass of wine. Once he handed her the glass he returned and carried the pitcher to his desk. Fuck niceties, he couldn’t finish this conversation completely sober. “I don’t know.” 

          “You haven’t spoken to him?” 

          He swallowed. “No.” 

          She leaned back in her chair. “I imagine it is very complicated: serving as Hand to the daughter of the king he murdered.” 

          “No more so than being brother to the man everyone believes poisoned their king,” the words were muttered into his wine glass. It took Jaime weeks to visit him after he was arrested for Joffrey’s murder. 

          “Jaime shouldn’t have been in King’s Landing to begin.” Genna sounded tired as if it were an argument she had too many times. “Another of Tywin’s failings; not getting that boy to retire his cloak and become lord of the Rock.” She drained her glass and set it on his desk. “Your brother should be married with his second or third child on their way, not rotting in a cell.” 

          “Tywin Lannister, the Great Lion of the Rock and defender of the West, constantly thwarted by his own children.” He tapped a finger on the rim of his glass. “What do you think his legacy will be when history has its way? The lord who spent his life building his family back from nothing? The brave lion who put down upstart lords by murdering entire bloodlines? Or the fool who raised a mad-woman, a sister-fucker, and a kinslayer?” 

          Genna glared at him. “I wouldn’t have thought you believed those lies.” 

          _What lies?_ Tyrion set his glass down as well. “Now that you know your niece and nephew aren’t rotting in the darkest of the Black Cells, tell me: why are you here?” 

          Her eyes sparkled. “Daven and I are here to swear our allegiance to the Iron Throne and Daenerys Targaryen,” she answered, smooth as butter. 

          “I know you, Aunt Genna.” he gave her a wry smile. “You didn’t come all the way from Casterly Rock, in winter no less, to lament over lost opportunities and the spectacular failures your niece and nephews turned out to be.” He nodded at her. “Nor did you come to make appearances at court. You want something.” 

          Her smile this time was easy. “For Daven to be formally recognized as acting Lord of the West.” 

          “Something already done,” Tyrion gave her a wry smile. “As was pointed out in the letter I sent.” 

          “A betrothal.” 

          Tyrion’s eyebrows lifted. “Betrothal?” 

          “Have you turned into a bird from the Summer Islands?” Genna flicked her hand at the window. “Your cousin Daven is here.” 

          “He was rather hard to miss. Was his goal to resemble our sigil, or was that a happy accident?” 

          “Daven Lannister is young, handsome, and brave. He is acting Warden of the Westerlands. Surely the Queen would see the benefit of such an alliance.” 

          He poured his aunt more wine. “She also has a Hand from the Westerlands,” Tyrion pointed out. “A Hand who happens to be a Lannister of Casterly Rock. It would be a marriage that brings her nothing, politically speaking.” 

          “A Hand who happens to be kinslayer by his own admission.” 

          Tyrion fought down a snarl. “Half the lords of Westeros are kinslayers of one degree or another. I am still the only son capable of inheriting the Rock, as Father never found the time to formally disown me.” And oh, how it must burn Tywin Lannister in whatever hell he watched from, to know that of all his children it was the bent, stunted one who survived. 

          Genna’s eyes widened. “A marriage to Daven brings her a Westerosi husband.” 

          “A husband who would sit beside her, not on the Iron Throne itself. Her Dothraki will not follow Daven. Her Unsullied will not follow him. They wouldn’t understand his orders if he tried to give them. Her dragons would roast him alive if he so much as looked at them in a way they disagreed with. Daenerys’s army is her army.” 

          “Do you really think the lords of Westeros are going to allow a woman to rule them?” His aunt sounded genuinely curious. 

          “I think the lords of Westeros don’t have a choice. She has her army; she will have the Faith. She has three dragons.” 

          Genna toyed with the stem of her glass. “What are her options then? For all his faults, Daven is honest. He is kind and good-humored. He would make her a good king.” 

          “He would.” Cousin Daven wasn’t cunning enough to plot to overtake the throne, and too honest to sit by as others did so for him. It was a good potential match. Excellent, really, if one ignored the obvious. “There is the fact that our family aided in the slaughter of her’s. Such a thing might understandably make one leery.” 

          “In a war started and ended before she drew breath.” 

          “I can’t force her to marry him.” 

          “But you can sing his praises when the conversation arises,” she challenged. “And it will, sooner rather than later.” 

          He grew tired of this conversation. “Edmure Tully is here.” 

          That caught her off guard. “Is he?” 

          “He arrived a sennight ago and swore fealty to our queen, along with three of his most powerful lords.” He gave her a shrewd look. “You can imagine what he’s been pushing for ever since.” 

          “His wife and son have been well looked after at the Rock.” 

          “I’m sure.” 

          Her expression soured. “Do you think I would allow harm to come to the girl under my care?” 

          “No.” Of anyone at Casterly Rock, his aunt would understand the value of Rosalynd Tully and her child. “Do you think Edmure Tully will leave here without extracting a blood oath from Daven that his wife and son be returned to Riverrun immediately? As well as certain…assurances that the West will be held accountable for the damage done to the Riverlands during the war.” 

          “Well,” his aunt’s smile slid into something entirely too relaxed for his liking. “I’m sure an arrangement can be made with Lord Tully that will satisfy all parties.” 

  

          Daenerys was in the middle of a Small Council meeting when Tyrion entered the chamber. Lord Celtigar was discussing ways they could stretch the Crown’s meager gold and silver reserves. At the moment there was little in the way of moveable wealth, but the options he outlined might prove useful until the Iron Bank responded to her request. 

          She noted the redness on one of her Hand’s cheeks but said nothing. He spent the hours since his cousin’s delegation was spotted on the road closeted away after asking leave to miss a portion of the meeting to greet his family. Hours had passed since then, but she was willing to allow him time. She hoped his cousin and aunt were more agreeable than his siblings. 

          For the first time in a long while her Hand approached her with an expression that bordered on pleased, a rolled parchment in hand. “I trust this is good news?” 

          Tyrion handed her the small scroll. “Yes, Your Grace.” 

          Daenerys read the scroll. The message was short and written in a sharp hand: 

_Tyrion,_

          _I thank you for your invitation. I have decided to accept and will make for King’s Landing with all haste. If the winds are kind I will arrive within the month._

_Jon Snow, King in the North_

          Her mouth set in a flat line. “He doesn’t mince words, does he?” 

          “I tried to warn you, Your Grace.” Tyrion nodded to the missive. “I consider his responding to your summons a good sign.” 

          It was certainly better than the echoing silence of the past weeks. She allowed the parchment to roll closed. “He still considers himself a king,” she noted. 

          Her Hand’s expression went stiff. “Force of habit, perhaps.” 

          She gave that answer the look it deserved. 

          “If Jon Snow isn’t coming to bend the knee and swear fealty to the Iron Throne, then why else would he travel south?” he argued. “His advisors would have cautioned him not to come. I would have cautioned him not to come. Staying in the North would be his best option if they planned on remaining a separate kingdom.” 

          “Perhaps he understands the strength of numbers,” Lord Darkwood mused. 

          Daenerys agreed. She had an army that could beat any the North could muster, even if they called on the knights of the Vale. She had three dragons. The Northern lords would be fools to attempt to resist her rule. Even if she wasn’t keen on using her children against them, the threat was there and very real. 

          Tyrion shook his head. “The North has never been invaded by a southern army, not so long as there has been a North to invade. Moat Cailin has stood for thousands of years and has never fallen from the south. The Neck has swallowed whole armies. Trying to march on Winterfell in winter from any direction is suicide. Jon Snow knows that, so why come south?” 

          “I understand the War of Five Kings wasn’t as devasting to the North as the Riverlands, but the lack of manpower during the final harvests would have taken a toll.” She sat and tapped the missive on her desk. “You yourself said the Northern winters are brutal.” 

          Varys stepped forward. “The North has near starved to death without asking the crown for help in centuries past, Your Grace. Your own ancestors had to resort to simply sending supplies unasked to ease their suffering in some of the worst winters.” 

          She fought down the sigh that gathered in her chest. The mystery of Jon Snow would have to wait until his arrival. “How soon before the High Septon’s delegation arrives?” 

          “Two days, Your Grace,” Aurane Waters replied. 

          Daenerys curled her fingers. With Yara soon to leave to secure the Iron Islands, she placed Aurane Waters at the head of their scant remaining navy which included five Ironborn ships as a ‘gesture of continued goodwill’. She was queen, but she wished to be more than a queen through conquest. Being crowned by the High Septon of the Seven would cement her position in the minds of the people. It was important, but the delay was a razor scrapping against her nerves. A delay that would soon be over. 

          She gestured for Tyrion to sit. Jon Snow was still a month away, and they had pressing matters before them now. “Lord Celtigar, if you would continue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, things are slowly coming together in the south, and our two monarchs are going to meet soon (pinky swear). I just realized that I've written over 100,000 words, and these two dorks are still on opposite sides of the continent.
> 
> [ Grey King ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Grey_King)  
> [ Chataya ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Chataya)  
> [ Alayaya ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Alayaya)  
> [ Summer Isles ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Summer_Isles)  
> [ Frostfires ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Frostfires) and [ What I imagine they look like ](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=KbTPO4%2f1&id=1F8929E6EA87AE8D11CD958FA28899741B9D4D26&q=id%3a1F8929E6EA87AE8D11CD958FA28899741B9D4D26&adlt=strict) Basically, red clover.  
> [ Taena Merryweather ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Taena_of_Myr)  
> [ Orton Merryweather ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Orton_Merryweather)
> 
> And, if anyone is interested, here is how I picture some of the characters:  
> [ Chataya ](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=lXwDLCwI&id=98328923AB3AEEDB2A851C49EBAB735905921458&q=id%3a98328923AB3AEEDB2A851C49EBAB735905921458&adlt=strict)  
> [ Lord Celtigar ](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=4sLA%2bH8U&id=A92C5665B26918760692D69F2A0D8B8E50A92E94&thid=OIP.4sLA-H8UAsXvkof_zC4phwHaLL&mediaurl=https%3a%2f%2fvignette.wikia.nocookie.net%2fgalavant%2fimages%2f8%2f80%2fKingsley.jpg%2frevision%2flatest%3fcb%3d20150119205031&exph=1999&expw=1324&q=Galavant+King&simid=608048977772871682&selectedIndex=0&adlt=strict&ajaxhist=0)  
> [ Daemon Darkwood ](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailv2&imgurl=https%3a%2f%2fupload.wikimedia.org%2fwikipedia%2fcommons%2f4%2f4d%2fStar_Wars-_The_Last_Jedi_Japan_Premiere_Red_Carpet-_Adam_Driver_\(27163437599\)_\(cropped\).jpg&iss=sbi&adlt=strict&selectedindex=0&id=https%3A%2F%2Fupload.wikimedia.org%2Fwikipedia%2Fcommons%2F4%2F4d%2FStar_Wars-_The_Last_Jedi_Japan_Premiere_Red_Carpet-_Adam_Driver_\(27163437599\)_\(cropped\).jpg&ccid=zKKcbtXs&mediaurl=https%3A%2F%2Fupload.wikimedia.org%2Fwikipedia%2Fcommons%2F4%2F4d%2FStar_Wars-_The_Last_Jedi_Japan_Premiere_Red_Carpet-_Adam_Driver_\(27163437599\)_\(cropped\).jpg&exph=3802&expw=2748&vt=2&sim=11)  
> [ Mellario of Norvos](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=4dcf%2f7e9&pccid=Snpu%2f%2bQl&id=14175867F7B566ADEE2BF4C86336362F7BFBF409&pmid=9351B825D72DF31578D07363135C105A68470662&thid=OIP.4dcf_7e9BDlK5NgdnJqwuAHaLY&psimid=608028696920526295&pimgurl=https%3a%2f%2fgabtor.files.wordpress.com%2f2010%2f02%2fmonica-bellucci-brothers-grimm-1.jpeg&ppageurl=https%3a%2f%2fwww.google.com%2fsearch%3fq%3d%22monica%2bbellucci%22%2bbrotherhood%26newwindow%3d1%26source%3dlnms%26tbm%3disch%26sa%3dX%26ved%3d2ahUKEwjLh-aq2KTnAhWCJ80KHdOBDbgQ_AUoAXoECCIQAw%26biw%3d1536%26bih%3d751%23imgdii%3dXVAModewynFNMM%3a%26imgrc%3dvfLHwfe8_T5xsM%3a&iss=VSI&selectedIndex=3&count=35&adlt=strict)  
> [ Arianne Martell](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=W31wXKsZ&id=9C1E2C4AE538593A728962B5AF8C98D91F7014D0&q=Vanessa+Hudgen&adlt=strict)  
> [ Ricasso ](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=FFGJVF9w&id=2BF1CF65387A7488338055EC318572E158BE12EF&q=id%3a2BF1CF65387A7488338055EC318572E158BE12EF&adlt=strict)  
> [ Genna Lannister ](https://www.bing.com/images/search?view=detailV2&ccid=i302o9wL&id=054AFDD99B16375DF921C655DD0636D9616532D3&q=Disjointed+Show+Kathy+Bates&adlt=strict).  
> 


	16. Three Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone!
> 
> My apologies for the lack of a Feb. posting. Let's all pretend that February is a normal month and has 30 days and this is being posted on the last day. :) In all honesty, though, I apologize. This was supposed to be posted yesterday, but it had major flaws, then I fell asleep while writing, then continued, then fell asleep while editing.... as you can see, I've been sleeping a lot lately.

          The Iron Throne was not a comfortable seat by any means. The hard steel was unforgiving, and more than once she felt her dresses catch on the sharper edges of the swords. After near two months of sitting the contraption she was coming to miss the smooth, polished stone of her throne in Meereen. At least there she could allow herself a cushion without feeling she was somehow failing her ancestors. _It is my father’s seat, and his father’s before,_ she told herself when she felt her arse grow numb from the long hours at court. 

          Still, Aegon could have made it a little more comfortable, especially for times like these. 

          Daenerys fought to show none of the butterflies fluttering in her chest and stomach as the delegation from the Starry Sept made its way to the throne. She spent near every waking moment since the Ironborn spotted their ship crossing the Gullet preparing, driving herself, Missandei, and her Small Council to distraction. She needed the Faith on her side if she planned on ruling Westeros. Needed their support and their ability to sway the nobility and smallfolk alike when diplomacy and the sword failed. Aegon himself did not follow the god of the Andals, but he understood the power in symbols and religion and the sway it held over the people he meant to rule. The Faith Militant no longer existed, but their rise in King’s Landing showed how quickly the lack could be remedied. 

          Tyrion told her to expect lavish trappings. The Faith was perhaps the richest single entity left on the continent, and they would make that power known. The tall headdress with seven crystals representing the seven faces of God, each wrapped in gold-wire was something her Hand expounded on at length. Lord Ardrian seemed offended at the memory of the rich robes and large appetites of the previous High Septon; a man known for enjoying the finer things his office could and did provide before he was torn apart during the Bread Riots. Daenerys expected nothing short of a parade of prancing peacocks not unlike the birds that haunted Illyrio’s gardens in Pentos, all plumage and little else. 

          The procession that made its way through the crowded throne room was rather subdued in comparison to her imaginings. She assumed the man leading the group of septas and septons was the High Septon if the richness of his robes and demeanor were any indication. The seven-pointed star of the Faith was embroidered on his tabard, each arm a different color, the garment cinched at his waist by a belt of cloth-of-gold. His robes were shot silk, and near glowed with every step he took. He wore no crown, and she found its lack after picturing it so clearly odd. The man was not unpleasant to look at. Once, he might have been considered handsome, with light brown eyes and dark hair liberally streaked with grey, his features softened by age. He carried himself like a man who knew his worth. The men and women following him were a flock of dull pigeons in grey and brown. A few were even barefoot, and her toes curled in sympathy. 

          Daenerys wore a high-collared overdress of deep, unrelieved black velvet, slashed at the sleeves to reveal a crimson underdress. Her hair was pulled back into her normal coil of braids with two thin, curling tendrils framing her face. At the last minute, she chose to wear the silver chain and three-headed dragon she wore when she arrived on Dragonstone. A reminder of her power, lest he forget. 

          Ten paces from the throne the procession stopped, leaving their leader to continue alone. When he reached the foot of the dais the High Septon bowed his head. “Your Grace.” 

          _“He will not kneel,”_ Tyrion warned her before their arrival. _“The High Septon is considered as much a spiritual king as you are Queen. Greet him as such.”_

          “High Septon,” Daenerys gave him a bright smile colored with relief. “Words cannot express how happy I am you have arrived safely.” 

          The High Septon smiled in return, though there was strain at its edges. “All is as God wills it, Your Grace.” His voice was pleasant, not overly harsh or censuring. 

          She nodded in agreement. “I speak people for the people of King’s Landing in expressing relief at the return of the true faithful to the capital.” 

          At this, the High Septon’s face fell. “For too long we have been barred from those in need, but those dire times are behind us. From all I have seen and heard you have proved a true Mother and seen to the physical needs of the faithful.” 

          Tyrion warned her of this as well. “And I am pleased that their Father has returned to see to the nurturing of their souls.” 

          Pleasantries out of the way, Daenerys turned her gaze to the collection of septas and septons at his back. “I welcome you to King’s Landing as well, brothers and sisters of the Faith,” she said formally before gesturing to Lord Darkwood. “Lord Daemon has prepared a list of the septs in the city and surrounding countryside, so that you may begin your good work for our people.” 

          “I thank you for your kindness and wisdom, Your Grace.” The High Septon gave another deep nod. 

          “It is my duty as queen,” she answered. “And one I take on gladly.” She stood. “If it pleases you, High Septon, I would speak to you privately. There is much to discuss.” 

          

          The High Septon haggled like a fishwife and pestered like a woman married fifty years. 

          Daenerys found herself fighting not to rub her forehead. Three hours after inviting the man to her private solar her teeth felt ground to dust and her cheeks were stiff with fighting off her scowls. The only thing that made their meeting bearable was the wine, and she had to temper herself else she would tell the man how she truly felt about his demands. The High Septon took his drink liberally watered and she couldn’t help the feeling he was judging her for not doing the same. She almost filled her glass a fourth time out of spite, but staid her hand only to feel a flash of annoyance. She was Queen of the Seven Kingdoms; if she wished to imbibe, she should, and no man’s gaze should keep her from it. 

          When they began their talks she thought the matter of her coronation would be the most difficult, but they had that settled in minutes. Both were determined the ceremony be simple and held as soon as possible. She felt it a good sign until it came to the subject currently under discussion. 

          “The Crown cannot afford to feed the people, and you would have me promise to rebuild Baelor?” 

          It was one of the High Septon’s more outlandish demands. One they circled back to time and again over the course of the morning. Others, such as seeing to the protection of the septons and septas as they re-established themselves in the smaller septs and almshouses and opening the sept of the Red Keep to the city for the High Holidays, she was happy to fulfill. 

          The High Septon leaned back on his chair. “The rebuilding of the Great Sept is a paramount concern of the Faith.” 

          “And the Crown would be more than happy to assist in doing so, were we not facing what could be the worst winter in more than a century,” Daenerys challenged. “You are asking me to invest in effigies rather than purchase food to fill the stomachs of my subjects.” 

          The man at least had the decency to look sheepish. “The Faith understands that the cost is high-” 

          “Then you understand the cost is too high, Your Holiness.” She would not invest in a monument to pride while her people went hungry. “The Faith remains perhaps the single most solvent entity in the Seven Kingdoms. Surely, it can stand the cost of rebuilding the Sept on its own?” 

          The High Septon reared back. “These are still perilous times, Your Grace. The wars have ended but winter is upon us and the scars run deep upon our land. The… unfortunate business with the High Sparrow proves that in such times the people turn to the Faith for guidance. For centuries, the Great Sept of Baelor has stood as a symbol of the Seven in the heart of King’s Landing. An unassailable sign of the Crown’s devotion.” 

          Daenerys blinked slowly. “Do you have reason to doubt my devotion, High Septon?” 

          He shifted. “May I be blunt, Your Grace?” 

          “I would prefer it.” 

          “You have spent your life in Essos,” The High Septon explained, not unkindly. “Exiled from the light of Seven. Through no fault of your own, of course,” he added quickly. “You have lived among foreign gods in foreign lands. There are rumors that a priestess of R’hllor walks the halls of the Red Keep.” 

          A churning began in her stomach. “What of her?” 

          He gave her an indulgent smile. “Robert kept a follower of R’hllor as well, a man named Thoros, I believe, though he was more of a curiosity. Your Dothraki are said to perform strange rituals in the fields outside the capital. It is said the faith of the Red God is sweeping through the Storm Lands, his followers burning septs. In times of such uncertainty is it not unbelievable the people will turn to false faiths searching for direction? Direction that must be provided to the people by those more learned.” 

          Understanding bloomed. Essos was a continent of a thousand faiths, none having precedence over the other, but it was not so in Westeros. The Faith of the Seven dominated, and it wished to maintain that dominance the only way it could: through symbols. 

          “The Faith and the Crown have stood side by side since the days of Jaehaerys I,” she said slowly. “With the understanding that the Faith sees to the wellbeing of the soul of the citizenry while the Crown looks to their body. It is a partnership that has served both well for centuries. However, the Crown cannot withstand the cost of building a sept to replace Baelor’s while our people face starvation.” Before he could speak, she raised a hand. “That does not mean I will not promote the Faith of the Seven and follow its tenants as my ancestors did before me. As Queen I serve as an example to my people, High Septon, is that not so?” 

          “Very much so, Your Grace.” 

          In truth, she held no real love for religion. Her youth was spent running from Robert Baratheon’s assassins. Her earliest memories were of sleeping near what temples allowed the poor to huddle in their doorways. On rare occasions some welcomed them inside and perhaps gave bread or soup in exchange for listening to their sermons. A few, the ones she liked best, asked for no such exchange and handed out clay cups of warm broth and small rolls with nothing more than a smile and a hope that she and Viserys found better fortune in the future. 

          Early on, her brother would seek out shrines to the Seven and pray. She could just remember the sound of his high voice, feverish in his devotions. He would pray for Ser Barristan to find them and take them home. Pray for their mother to return to them. Pray for the next lord or magister to take them in. They would kneel on the rough stone or polished marble until their knees went numb, and still he prayed. She was perhaps six when he dragged her past a shrine to the Father without stopping. 

          She forced a benign smile. “This is not to say the Crown will not support works put forth by the Faith, High Septon. My help is yours.” 

          Her smile was returned. “And that of the Faith’s will be at the ready for the Crown.” 

          _The High Septon may be a man of the cloth, but the Faith has served as a bank for Westeros for as long as either as existed,_ Lord Celtigar informed her yesterday in his rough voice. The Faith of the Seven gave loans to the petty kings of the old kingdoms as well as to her ancestors when required. She would not begin their relationship with her hand out like a beggar. 

          “I would greatly appreciate the assistance of the Faith with seeing to the feeding and housing of the overflow of citizens in the capital.” Here she let some vulnerability seep through. “The Unsullied are soldiers, better suited for the campaign than seeing to such delicate work.” She thought of the riots that broke out the first weeks, as they worked to establish bread and soup lines before the entirety of the project was handed over to the City Watch with her Unsullied acting as guards only. Still, there were injuries and deaths, not counting the goods stolen and sold back to the populous at exorbitant prices. When Tyrion discovered this, he worked with the Watch and the thefts stopped but the tension from those early days remained. “I have opened several of the abandoned manses to women and children, but I feel the presence of members of the Faith will go far in reassuring the people.” 

          The High Septon nodded. “I will see who among the brothers and sisters are appropriate to such pursuits, Your Grace.” 

          A timid knock sounded at the door. “Enter.” 

          Tyene appeared, all soft innocence in pale ivory. “Your Grace, Lord Tyrion wishes to know if you plan to see to the afternoon petitioners.” 

          She couldn’t fight the slight sigh of relief that escaped her. “Of course.” She turned to her guest. “If you will excuse me, High Septon. Lady Tyene will see you to your rooms.” 

          He gave Tyene a speculative look, one that made the slightest flush of embarrassment stain her cheeks. “Of course.” 

          They went their separate ways in the hall, Daenerys flanked by a mixture of Westerosi knights, this time from House Rollingford, and her Bloodriders. They’d stopped watching each other like feral cats and settled for only glaring when they thought she wouldn’t notice. An improvement, at least. 

          Daenerys maintained her composure until she came to her rooms and slipped inside. She leaned against the door and sucked in a breath before letting it out slowly, eyes closed. 

          “Surely it wasn’t that bad?” 

          She almost bristled at the amusement in Varys’ tone. “I don’t suppose I can appoint a new High Septon?” 

          Her Master of Whispers gave a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately, no. The Faith have their own way of determining who will lead them, and the Crown has no input whatsoever.” 

          She looked up. Varys was seated in a small alcove, the sheen of his gold and blue robes catching the weak winter sun spilling through the narrow window. After a long moment, he turned to face her, a small smile on his face. 

          “So, tell me… when will our queen be crowned?” 

* * *

          They made good time, traveling overland and taking the beaten path abutting the White Knife. Maester Wolkan’s predictions on the weather held, the sun providing what little warmth it could during the day. The journey was without incident; the countryside empty of all but those forced to travel as winter took hold. Many of the farms were shuttered, the people already moved to the holdfasts and hamlets to shelter from the storms. Those they visited were filled with Northmen eager to greet their king, and Jon found himself enjoying the break from the monotony of traveling. They never stayed more than a single night, but those nights were filled with laughter as he drank and ate among his people. In a way it reminded him of the Night’s Watch. There was none of the false camaraderie he’d grown used to at Winterfell from lords who still saw him as Ned’s bastard son before they saw him as king, or the Vale lords who played pretense. 

          The attack came three days out from White Harbor. 

          Brayan, one of his newly elected royal guards, took a bolt to the neck when he kicked his horse and moved a few bare inches ahead. He had enough time to register the spray of blood and hear the shouts of alarm. After that, it was chaos as men poured from both sides of the road. Everything narrowed to the enemy in front of him, the length of his sword and the breath in his lungs. He could smell blood, feel the heat as it sprayed on his skin before it cooled. 

          When the fighting ceased Jon sheathed Longclaw and picked his way through the dead to his fallen guard, the remainder of his guard forming a wall around him. Brayan stared up at the blue sky, pale grey eyes already filmed over in death. They were less than twenty; good enough odds for highwaymen to attempt an assault, but brigands would be fools to attack a group of heavily armored men even if they planned to pepper them with arrows. It was too early in the season to explain it away as desperation. This was deliberate, and he knew there was only one explanation. 

          Baelish. 

          “Are you well, Jon?” Davos asked as he approached, sword drawn and eyes scanning the tree line. His Hand may claim to know nothing of swordplay, but he knew how to fight dirty if the way he swung his sword low was any indication. 

          “Fine.” He stared at the lurid red swath the blood made on the dirty snow. He would see Brayan’s bones returned to Winterfell and that he was interred in the lichyard for his service, however brief. His eyes took in the carnage around them. “Were there any survivors?” 

          “No, my King,” Lord Glover answered. The lord’s four guards flanked him, eyes turned to the trees and road. 

          Not that it would make any difference. He was sure it was Baelish, and the regent of the Vale wasn’t foolish enough to let those in his employ know who they truly worked for. 

          Glover poked at the boiled leather breastplate of one of the attackers before leaning down and shaking an ax free from a severed hand. It was a rough weapon, something that could be used to fell a tree as easily as split a man’s skull. Not mercenaries, then. Or not meant to appear as such. There would be no messages or insignia to make this look like anything more than desperate men hoping for supplies and coin. He was so certain that when one of his men shouted that they found something he was surprised, then enraged when he discovered what it was. 

          A scrap of fabric, black with the remnants of red stitching wrapped around a bundle of silver. Targaryen colors. 

          _He must think me a fool._ He stifled the urge to turn back to Winterfell and see Baelish’s head on a spike. 

          Jon tossed the bundle on the ground, scattering the mixed coins in the snow. “Leave the bodies for the crows,” he ordered before directing them to move some of their supplies and strap Brayan to the lightened packhorse. Two animals had to be put down due to arrows, and he cursed. A search of the area around them revealed where the men no doubt made camp, but there were no horses at the campsite. 

          They were riding for less than a mile when Robett spoke. 

          “These were no ordinary highwaymen, Your Grace.” 

          “Aye.” Jon’s eyes scoured the trees. Littlefinger might have others lying in wait. A larger group if the first failed. 

          “And what the man was carrying,” Glover continued. “Surely-” 

          “Surely the Dragon Queen has more to worry about than hiring northern upstarts to assassinate the King in the North,” he interrupted. “Upstarts who couldn’t know their king would be on this road, at this time.” They’d been traveling for three weeks. Left Winterfell the day after announcing his intent. It would take a raven almost that entire time to travel south and return with instructions. 

          Robbet’s expression soured. “Doesn’t mean she has no sympathizers in the North. Those who fear her dragons and what she can do. The least she would give is a lordship to the bastard hands her your head.” 

          Jon turned to his lord. Robett Glover watched him with burning eyes. The man’s blood was up. “The Dragon Queen had no way of knowing we would travel this road, Lord Glover. No way of knowing we would be here, now. Nor would she give assassins a purse with her colors. Only a fool would do such a thing, and a woman who conquered Slaver’s Bay strikes me as a woman far from a fool.” Some of the heat went out of the other man’s gaze as his blood cooled and his good sense reasserted itself. Good. Let the man think with his head for once. “Whoever those men were, they died for their trouble.” 

          Glover looked ready to launch into another argument but thought better of it. 

          Three days, Jon thought as they rode. Three days until White Harbor and the safety of its walls. 

* * *

          “Was once we could send the men to the Wall, Your Grace. It’s been nigh on four years since we’ve had a Black Brother through to empty the cells, and we’ve more than reached capacity.” 

          Daenerys listed carefully as Humfrey Waters, Lord Commander of the City Watch, reported on the state of the city jails. Jails currently filled to overflowing. He was the most urgent of the afternoon petitioners, according to Missandei. “Qu…Lady Cersei, she had us just throw some back to the street.” 

          “And those who haven’t been released?” 

          He straightened. “Thievery rates a flogging or a cut if they can't pay the fine, hanging if it's worth it. Some want to take the Black to avoid the noose, but again, we’ve not had a Brother to claim them.” 

          She thought back to a recent Small Council meeting. Lord Langward spoke of the amount of food needed to keep the City Watch and how something needed to be done. “And how many of these recruits for the Night’s Watch have gone unclaimed?” 

          “Near seventy who wait for execution or a recruiter, spread between the four barrack jails, Your Grace.” 

          Seventy men spread between jails meant to hold no more than ten each, if that. Another near thirty languishing in the Black Cells from among those hunted down by the Dothraki for banditry who chose to take the Black over the headsman. 

          She gave Commander Waters a comforting smile. “I will see the men transported to the Wall, Commander Waters, and your cells emptied.” She would have to make inquiries to determine the proper protocol. She remembered Tyrion speaking of how derelict the Wall was. Surely, they would welcome a hundred men, no matter their providence. In the meantime, she would see if there was a way to put these men to work. They were able-bodied enough to terrorize to populous, that energy could be put to better use elsewhere. 

          Commander Waters bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.” 

          Some problems were more easily dealt with than others. 

          “Your Grace-” 

          “You will explain why my Unsullied had to intervene in what you claim was a ‘conversation’ between you and the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands.” 

          When Grey Worm interrupted the afternoon petitioners to inform her of an incident between her Hand and the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, she thought he was mistaken. Edmure Tully was so soft-spoken during their few meetings, and Tyrion was more likely to attack with words than fists. At her commander’s insistence she left the two lords before her to continue their squabble over a parcel of land and found Tyrion standing in the chamber off the throne room. His burgundy doublet was wrinkled and his face pale as he downed what she hoped was water. There were no bruises that she could see at least. 

          Tyrion swallowed harshly at the cold curiosity of her tone. “A misunderstanding, Your Grace,” he soothed. 

          “Misunderstanding?” Daenerys approached him slowly, hands folded to keep them from fisting. “I understand it is only through your insistence that Lord Tully is not a guest of the Black Cells. You’ll have to do better than that.” 

          Her hand visibly steeled himself. “Lord Edmure was…overwrought, Your Grace. His concern for the wellbeing of his wife and son momentarily overrode his better judgment.” 

          Daenerys raised an eyebrow. “And their wellbeing concerns my Hand how?” 

          Tyrion walked slowly to one of the chairs and pulled it out, gesturing for her to take a seat. She eyed the chair before perching on the edge. He waited until she did so before settling heavily in his own. “Because both are currently guests of my cousin Daven and Aunt Genna, as they have been since the Red Wedding.” 

          She closed her eyes for a moment as a chill ball rolled through her stomach. “Explain.” 

          He did so quickly, summing up the War of Five Kings, Edmure being held captive by his good family for years while his wife and infant son were kept in captivity hundreds of miles away, and culminating the tale with the confrontation in her halls. She was impressed the whole thing took less than five minutes. “And his choking you near to death?” 

          “It was only slightly,” he corrected. “More a result of grabbing me by the doublet than an actual attempt at choking.” 

          She was not amused. “The Lord of the Riverlands was ready and willing to defy my peace and raise hand to you in my halls. That goes beyond a misunderstanding.” She prided herself on the order she kept in the Red Keep. Her lords and ladies were free to walk the halls without escort as the Unsullied protected all equally. The Red Keep under Targaryen rule would not be lawless as it was under Cersei or her children, or even Robert. Three rather spectacular incidents in the early days of her rule drove that point home. 

          Something like sadness overtook Tyrion’s face. “Lord Edmure spent the better part of the past four years a captive of the Freys, his wife and child prisoners far from his sight. He is only recently free. His lack of self-control can be excused under those circumstances, surely.” 

          She gave a small nod of assent. The time for recrimination was over. They needed to focus on the solution. “And how did you plan to rectify this situation, Lord Hand?” 

          “The Riverlands were hit hardest by the war. My father was determined to leave no field unburned, no silo standing. What few farms escaped were those furthest east. Any castle he took by force had their winter stores shipped to the Westerlands as a warning to the others. My plan was to return some of these goods as recompense, as well as his wife and child.” He grimaced. “The execution of that plan is where the difficulty arises.” 

          It sounded easy enough. “There must be records of these shipments.” 

          “Of course. My father made certain he knew where the harvest was going. He’d need records to know where to send when it was needed later in winter.” 

          “Good. That should make it easy to recover what was stolen.” She frowned when his grimace only deepened. “Your cousin remained Warden of the West due in no small part to your recommendation. It is time we saw some return on that generosity.” 

          Tyrion sighed. “This was why I attempted to delay Edmure speaking with my cousin. Or to you. Delivering restitution to the Riverlands will be delicate. I’m sure the Westerland lords haven’t let the grain and goods sit idle after my father’s death. More than likely they’ve been using them first before going into their own stores. Returning what was stolen will require an army of bookkeepers, not to mention soldiers to see to its recovery and distribution. No lord will be willing to part with a single berry of wheat or preserved apple with winter upon us. Both you and my cousin think in similar ways at times. You see a wrong, and you would have it righted.” 

          She leaned forward. “And how would your cousin deal with this issue?” she asked. 

          Tyrion laughed humorlessly. “Daven would determine how much tonnage was taken from the Riverlands as a whole, track down the Houses who received it, and divide what was to be returned equally among them.” He sighed and deflated. “Nevermind which Houses received what percentage. He would share the harm equally among them, even if it meant driving some to ruin.” 

          “You think I would do that?” 

          “Intentionally?” He shook his head. “No, but you both share a desire to seek out the easy solution. A man steals a loaf of bread, you give it back to the baker and everyone is happy.” At her glare, he gave her a fond smile. “You at least are learning that not all solutions are so simple.” After a moment the smile faded. “Doing this will win you no allies.” 

          “No.” She agreed with him there. Hunger made savages out of the most docile of men, the threat of it even more so. “But it may save lives. You enjoy telling everyone how clever you are, Tyrion. It’s time you showed them just how much.” 

          His eyes widened almost comically before he stood and bowed with a stilted “Your Grace”. 

          Daenerys watched him go and pushed aside her discomfort at the small insult she dealt him. Her Hand was more than clever. He was one of the most intelligent men she’d met in her short life, but in their acquaintance, she’d come to learn something of him. Tyrion Lannister could be self-defeating at the oddest of times, but the one thing he could not resist was a challenge thrown in his face. 

  

          The Most High removed the heavy tabard he’d worn through the audience with Daenerys Targaryen, relieved when the weight was gone from his shoulders. 

          After his audience, he’d meant to retire to his quarters, but found himself walking the hall of the Keep with the young woman, Tyene Sand, the Queen’s lady in waiting. The girl was Dornish, though her accent was light. He imagined she was from the Marches rather than the southern coast or interior, like Septon Osmond. An enchanting child, and far too innocent for this place. 

          “Was she difficult, High Septon?” 

          He half-turned. Septon Luceon approached on soft feet. “She is… promising.” 

          The quarters of the High Septon of the Faith in the Red Keep were not as luxurious as those of the Starry Sept, but he would not expect it to be so. The Starry Sept stood for millennia before the Targaryens came to Westeros and was designed to be a respite for the Holy from the outside world. They were spacious, more so than any other than those of the royal quarters in Maegor’s, he was led to believe. The large double doors led out onto a balcony that overlooked the royal gardens. A view that was no doubt spectacular in summer, but at the start of winter gave only a stunning view of the Blackwater. 

          Septon Luceon relieved him of the tabard and draped the thick cloth over its stand. “Promising?” 

          The High Septon allowed himself a rare full smile. “She cares, Luceon. Cares enough to challenge the one person who would stand against her true ascension in the eyes of God.” The lack of her faith was troubling, however. She showed him the dignity he assumed she would show any diplomat or head of House, not the respect due to one who spoke for God. 

          Septon Luceon didn’t look pleased by this observation. “Then you mean to see her crowned?” 

          The High Septon closed his eyes. As they passed Dragonstone he saw her great beasts as they flew; a sight he would never imagine himself being cursed with. Even at a distance, their size was intimidating, and they breathed fire just as Aegon’s did. One of her ‘children’ could lay Oldtown and the Starry Sept low. Open the kingdoms to conquest by the base religions of Essos. Already followers of the fire god R’hllor dared preach their blasphemy in the streets. “She is better than others.” 

          With Cersei deposed, the only way to stem the burgeoning chaos was to see Daenerys on the throne. Her army would decimate any that tried to stand against her. Better a woman on the throne, one that perhaps could yet be molded, than more chaos. 

          His thoughts turned to her soldiers. He did not know if the Unsullied worshiped an eastern god or goddess; in his readings on his journey there seemed to be no evidence of it, but he knew something of the Dothraki faith. They worshiped horses, or perhaps their god was a horse, with the sun as his bride. They were wrong, of course, but their beliefs gave him hope they could be led to the proper path. It was better they believed in something than nothing at all, as he felt the Unsullied did. Perhaps, in time, they could be brought into the bosom of the Seven. 

          “She wishes to be crowned as soon as we can manage.” He expected as much. She was a queen through conquest but wanted more than that. He could see it in the tension of her shoulders. The way her eyes shone as she spoke of her coronation. Her plans for the event were simple, almost austere in comparison to those of Robert Baratheon and his queen. “Three days hence.” 

* * *

          

          Edmure was surprised when the group of Unsullied came to his door and bade him follow them. He spent the two days since his confrontation with Tyrion Lannister in the halls confined to his rooms. Gentle confinement, but it was enough to make his chest tight and his ears ring in odd ways. The door remained unlocked unless he did so himself, and he was allowed visitors as he pleased, but he was unable to leave at the Queen’s command. 

          His first step into the hall lifted a weight from his shoulders and eased the breath in his lungs. The absence of the familiar scaled mail of his men brought a new tension in his back as they walked, though it was to be expected. He was under censure from the throne for his actions. The groups of lords and ladies they passed parted swiftly, and whispers followed in their wake. His altercation with Tyrion was no doubt well known by now, though the reason behind it was surely twisted and unrecognizable. Perhaps altered to the point where he took a knife to the man. He hadn’t meant for it to be so. He had a vague recollection of Lord Piper grabbing at his arm when she started towards the Hand, but he shook the man off as he would a fly. He had eyes for no one but the man he knew was keeping him from seeing his wife and child. 

          In less time than he would have liked he was walking through the heavy doors of the throne room. 

          The first time he saw the Dragon Queen, he thought it a jest. The pale girl dressed in grey and blue was small, and though she was sitting he guessed her little taller than a child, her slender form almost lost on the Iron Throne. He expected her voice to be high and equally girlish and was startled at its depth when she bade him and his lords stand. Then, he was coming as a Lord Paramount swearing fealty. Now he was being escorted by her Unsullied and likely to face punishment. The tales of the punishments handed down to those who defied her in Essos were legion. 

          The throne room was empty of all but her Unsullied and Dothraki when he entered, the queen settled on her throne with a face that could be carved from marble for all its stillness. His footfalls echoed in the silent chamber. No audience then. His punishment would not be used as an example. 

          He bowed deeply. “Your Grace.” 

          “This is not how I wished to see you again, Lord Tully.” There was anger there and more than a little exasperation. “I promised peace and safety to all those who reside in the Red Keep, and you violated that promise. I require an explanation.” 

          He straightened. “Forgive me, Your Grace. It was a misunderstanding between myself and the Lord Hand.” 

          “Misunderstanding?” Her head tilted. “Strange. That is exactly how Lord Tyrion described it.” 

          Edmure frowned. 

          “You seem confused, my Lord.” She leaned forward. “You should know, it is only through Lord Tyrion’s intercession that you were not escorted to the Black Cells for your ‘misunderstanding’.” 

          The thought of being locked away in darkness sent a shiver racing up his spine. “Then I am grateful to the Lord Hand.” 

          “As you should be. He was rather determined your behavior be excused due to extenuating circumstances. I would hear more of this ‘misunderstanding’. Lord Edmure.” 

          His jaw clenched. “I have attempted for several days to arrange an audience with either yourself or a meeting with Lord Daven concerning the return of my wife and son, efforts that have come to nothing, Your Grace. I’ve come to believe the Lord Hand gave specific instruction that my attempts be refused.” There was a tremor in his voice he couldn’t quite contain. For almost a week he haunted Daven Lannister’s steps, sent word through his men, only to always be just shy of him. He’d even gone as far as to attempt to speak with Lady Genna. “I’m ashamed to say when I learned my efforts were being deliberately rebuffed, I lost my temper.” 

          The queen’s features softened as he spoke, became less forbidding. “My Hand said much the same when I questioned him on what might have sparked the incident. Considering the circumstances, I have decided to forgive you. I can understand how frustrating it must be, to be separated from your wife and child and to have your efforts to see them returned thwarted.” 

          Edmure bowed. “Thank you, Your Grace.” 

          “To that end, you will speak with my Hand concerning this matter, Lord Edmure.” The dark material of her skirts fell about her with a gentle hiss as she rose. “I am sure his intervention in your quest to see your family returned lay in his desire to oversee the issue himself and not from any malice. You will see him now and put it to rest.” 

          Edmure felt his tongue stick to the roof to his mouth. He bowed again and his chest parallel to the floor before he was able to speak. “Thank you, Your Grace.” 

          

          It seemed all he did since becoming Hand was oversee meetings he did not look forward to, and truth be told, he looked forward to this one less than his meeting with his aunt. At least, with Aunt Genna, he knew he could find some common ground. She understood him and how his mind worked. She was the one person who ever gave him some benefit of the doubt, if only because she trusted his intelligence. She knew he would not make himself the fool because doing so was thoroughly against his nature. 

          With Edmure Tully, he had no such advantage. 

          Tully would see him as nothing more than a Lannister. As part of the family that burned and pillaged his lands, arranged for the murder of his kin, stole his remaining family and stripped him of his lands and titles. That left him in the hands of his enemies instead of moving him to better accommodations at Casterly Rock, or at the very least made him a hostage of the Crown. Whose soldiers continued to ravage his lands even after they won the war. Not that Tyrion had hand in any of those crimes, but as always, he would be guilty by association. 

          Part of Tyrion wondered if Edmure would take the opportunity to relieve his shoulders of the weight of his head. To that end, he made sure Bronn outside his doors when the Lord Paramount arrived at the Tower of the Hand, waiting to relieve Tully of any weapons he thought to take into their meeting. 

          He should have invited Daven to join them. 

          He was about the send a runner for his cousin when three heavy knocks announced the arrival of his guest. 

          “Lord Edmure Tully,” Bronn said the words lazily before stepping aside. 

          Edmure Tully was a gaunt thing he noted, not for the first time. He expected little else after years of captivity at the hands of the Freys. There was little spare flesh on his frame, but what was left was more than enough to lift him to his toes days ago. 

          He waited until the door closed to speak. “The queen said you stopped her from throwing me in the Black Cells,” Edmure glared at him. “Why?” 

          Tyrion gave a small smile. “As someone who’s spent time in the Black Cells, I can’t say I recommend them. Especially to someone who spent time as a captive. The only thing worse than the rats is the smell. Wine?” 

          Edmure’s jaw clenched. 

          He bled some of the amusement from his voice. “No man deserves to be thrown in the Cells for what you did. You were protecting your family, Lord Edmure. Believe it or not, I understand.” 

          Tully took the glass as if he expected the wine to turn into a viper. “They say you killed your father and nephew.” 

          “I didn’t kill Joffrey.” But he had several ideas on who did, and one of them was resting quite comfortably in the Red Keep as they spoke. 

          The Lord Paramount of the Riverlands gave a small humph and set his glass down. “The Queen says we are to discuss how to resolve this state of affairs. That your interference stemmed from your desire to do so personally.” A muscle above his eye twitched. “So, tell me, what is your plan?” 

          “To see Rosalyn and Hoster returned to Riverrun,” he said the words gently, as he would to a frightened animal. 

          Edmure looked poleaxed. “Hoster?” he breathed. 

          “Yes. Rosalyn named your son after your father.” He gave Tully a moment to bask in that knowledge before continuing. “The queen has also asked me to work on a means of overseeing restitution to the Riverlands for the goods taken during the War of Five Kings.” Genna was on her way back to Casterly Rock to examine the records and return with at least an overview of the accounts. He requested two of Lord Celtigar’s men travel there as well, as assurance that the work was done honestly. 

          “The Westerlands should return every bushel of wheat, every cow, and every piece of fruit or salted meat taken.” The words were growled. “Your father descended on my people like a plague of locusts and stole our largess before burning what could not be carried off.” 

          “A fine idea, but impossible.” 

          Tully reared back. 

          “If you press for the Westerlands to return all of the goods taken by my father it will lead to war.” He didn’t need to send ravens to know that. The Western lords would balk en masse. Sending their forces into the Westerlands might be enough to unite those factions that saw Daenerys as nothing more than a foreign invader, perhaps add to their numbers, and they would have to face them in the field. He knew how reluctant she was to use her dragons against her new subjects. Knew she feared being named mad like her father. “Perhaps another arrangement can be made. Your wife and son-” 

          “Are captives in Casterly Rock,” Lord Tully hissed. 

          “Yes.” It did no good to argue the point. “And have been treated as their station deserves by my aunt for the entirety of their stay. They have wanted for nothing.” 

          “And that should excuse the ruin your father brought on my people?” Edmure paced away from him. “Excuse the rape of children and slaughter of innocents? The murder of my sister and nephew at my own wedding?” 

          Tyrion hung his head. “No.” 

          His admission made Lord Tully turn to face him. 

          “My father started a war because your sister took me into custody for the attempted murder of her son.” He could still remember the cold gaze she gave him years later. The way she spit the accusation at him as if he were a back-alley catspaw and not the son of a high lord. “She was wrong, of course. I wanted nothing but for the boy to recover from his injuries.” He let every bit of sincerity shine in those words. He hated the thought of Brandon Stark dying. Hated more the thought of why he might have found himself thrown from a tower of his home. “My father tore through your homeland in retaliation for the offense.” 

          “So you would blame my sister-” 

          “The point is neither of us started this war. The blame for that rests with your sister and my father. But between the two of us, we can finally end it.” 

          Tully glared at him, dark eyes brooding. “What do you propose then, Lord Hand?” 

          Tyrion took a breath. “That Rosalyn and your son be returned to Riverrun immediately,” he said quickly. “In light of the brutality of my father’s campaign, the Westerlands will return 25% of the goods taken-” 

          Tully barked a laugh. “So only a quarter of my people survive the winter-” 

          “To end hostilities between our houses once and for all.” Edmure’s face was flushed with anger, but he pressed on, tone strident. “I would offer a betrothal as well, but as neither Daven or I have children it would be a moot point.” He doubted Edmure would entertain the thought of his son or daughter marrying into the Lannister line if they did. “The alternative is forcing the Westerlands to part with stores at the beginning of winter or sending what remains of your bannermen into the West to take it by force. It will mean lords calling their banners, more smallfolk dying on both sides. Are you willing to begin the bloodshed again, Lord Tully?” 

          The lord of the Riverlands marched past him to the door. 

          “You should also consider this,” Tyrion called to his back. “Daenerys will not allow another war on these shores, not now that she’s taken the throne. She will demand any army raised stand down. If you refuse, she will have no choice but to unleash her forces on you and your people.” He paused when Tully stopped walking. He was in the yard when Drogon last passed over the Red Keep. Knew the fear the beast raised in everyone who saw or heard it. “Haven’t the Riverlands suffered enough? Haven’t you?” Tyrion took a small step forward. “You will have your wife and your son, safe in your arms. No man can ask for more than that. I will have my cousin swear to their safe conduct to the gates of Riverrun.” 

          “The word of a Lannister,” the other man snarled. 

          Tyrion let a hint of sharpness enter his tone. “You may think what you want of me, Lord Tully, but Daven is an honest man. If he swears to see them home, he will do so himself and kill any man who tries to harm them.” For once he hoped Daven’s reputation preceded him. He was not political, that was true, but he held to his oaths. Always had done since he was a boy new to his spurs. 

          Edmure Tully turned to him. Before the war he’d heard rumors of the man; a spoiled lordling, more involved with seeking pleasure than seeing to the running of his ailing father’s lands. A man he might have liked, had they spent time together. The lord who stared at him was nothing of the sort. Lord Edmure Tully of Riverrun stared at him with all the intent of a hunting animal. “I accept your terms, Lord Hand,” he said with a small bow, voice tight. “My wife and child, and 25% of the stores stolen from the Riverlands, or I will call my banners and damn what you or the Dragon Queen does.” 

          Tully left the offices of the Hand without saying another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter title: Dragons and Wolves


	17. Dragons and Wolves (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coronation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay in getting this chapter out. As you can see, it has been broken up because I didn't want you to wait anymore, and I didn't think anyone would appreciate a roughly 50-page chapter. Part 2 should be up within the next two weeks.
> 
> If you have made it this far into this story you are an absurd amount of awesome! Thanks for sticking with me everyone ^_^

          Taena Merryweather waited outside her queen’s door at the head of a group of chambermaids, hair and dress immaculate as was her habit. She ran a hand down the lace that decorated her bodice with a slight shiver. Despite her years living in Westeros she’d never grown used to the winters. Summers in the Reach were lovely, but the cold could be so much harsher than that of her homeland. Already she’d had to pack away her more comfortable gowns and cover herself more in accordance with Westerosi fashion, her only nods to her homeland sprays of lace. 

          Her gaze went to the window at the end of the corridor. It was near dawn, though one wouldn’t know it from the lingering darkness. A storm came ashore the night before, battering King’s Landing. There was no thunder, but the waves that crashed against the rocks more than made up for the lack. There were whispers of the storm being an ill omen among the servants; that it boded ill for the beginning of Daenerys’s rule. Taena scoffed at the idea. What better way for the Stormborn to begin her reign than with the wind at her back? 

          When she was formally approached by the queen’s herald and asked to attend a private meal, Taena entertained few illusions as to why she was being summoned. As a former lady for Cersei, she was a prized witness against the former queen, both for what she knew and what she could insinuate. It was with some shock that she wasn’t promptly ordered to stand as a witness but was instead offered a place as one of the queen’s attendants. At no time during their short meal was the subject of Cersei’s impending trial even mentioned. There were only passing congratulations from Varys, his face kindly and open as always, that drove the message home. Clever, she was willing to admit. She’d believed Daenerys Targaryen, the princess lost to Essos and the Dothraki Sea possessed no head for politics. If she didn’t, she proved willing to listen to those who did. 

          It was only her second week of serving as a lady in waiting and already she’d learned much. The girl was an early riser, a far different state of affairs from Cersei, who screeched and threatened if she was disturbed before the hour of the sparrow. Serving as a lady in waiting to the new queen was a delight after the Lannister queen. While Cersei was willing to while away hours in her cups, especially after the death of Joffrey, the young queen was determined to do much of her work herself. She attended Small Council meetings, held court, and spent more time than any king or queen Taena could remember surveying the city. She had a habit of responding to her correspondence personally, signed and sealed before it was passed into other hands. The few times she was too busy it was handed off to Missandei, the First among her Ladies. 

          Missandei of Naath remained another mystery, one Taena found herself trying to unravel more so than the queen. Despite her insistence on hailing from the island of Naath, she was rumored to be a former Astapori slave. Her skin was remarkably free of markings for one such, a sign that she must have been an obedient slave indeed, for the Astapori were not known for the gentle treatment of their property. Not only did she speak Valyrian, she spoke all three of its dialects, as well as Dothraki and Common. It was said she traveled with the queen for years, ever since she acquired her Unsullied. A veritable fount of information, if she could be tapped. 

          As yet, her every attempt at forging a deeper friendship was rebuffed, gently if firmly. 

          The Naathi was only one of a collection of oddities Daenerys brought with her, and not all were from Essos. The appearance of Tyrion Lannister as her Hand was perhaps the most interesting. A curious choice that, Tyrion Lannister. The man proved capable of fulfilling the duty when he served as Hand for his father under Joffrey, though she imagined his sister kept him on a short leash. At the least, he seemed capable of reigning in the worst of Joffrey Baratheon’s excesses. She recalled the rumors of him actually slapping the little bastard after the Bread Riots. She would have given half her wedding jewelry to witness that. 

          A murmur went up among the maids in a gentle wave. “Lady Merryweather,” a soft, girlish voice said a moment before Tyene Sand’s dark head broke through the crowd. 

          Tyene Sand was young and beautiful, another of the oddities Daenerys brought to court. One of Oberyn Martell’s many bastards by Ellaria Sand. A princess, if not for the circumstances of her birth. Her features still held the roundness of youth. She favored colors that reminded one of spring, all pale purples and creams, despite her sisters’ habit of wearing their house colors. The girl was gentle and soft-spoken, always eager to complete any task she was set to though a melancholy haunted her gaze. It was no secret that her mother was displeased with the queen’s plans to see Cersei tried instead of simply executed and chose to spend her days in the Martell manse instead of the Keep. Her older sisters both filled their days with their own pursuits, all but abandoning the girl to her service to the queen. 

          “Lady Sand,” Taena answered with a nod of her head and a doting smile. 

          Tyene’s face lit up, her smile spreading in return. Poor child, she thought. To be abandoned so in the capital was a terrible thing. 

          The deep blue-grey of clouded dawn began to overtake the candle-lit hall when the doors to the royal apartments opened, revealing Missandei. The dark-skinned woman stood tall, head back and brown eyes piercing. Not the behavior of a slave by any means. After giving the group of women a thorough inspection she moved to the side, allowing them to enter the queen’s chambers. 

          The servants went about their duties swiftly; setting down a platter of dried fruit and poached eggs alongside a tureen filled with chunks of fish swimming in a white sauce spicy enough to make her nose twitch. Eating with Daenerys was a welcome reminder of home. The Westerosi pallet was a truly bland thing in comparison. They had no appreciation of layered flavors, and heat was a thing lost on them. 

          Daenerys emerged from the bedchamber in a heavy, fur-trimmed robe, her thick, pale hair loose. She and Tyne curtsied. “Your Grace,” they said in unison. 

          Daenerys nodded to them in turn. “Ladies.” Once she settled, she gestured to the seats across from her. “Please.” 

          Tyene reached eagerly for a dried fig, nibbling on the delicacy while Missandei busied herself dolling out the fish for her queen. “Are you nervous?” The Dornishwoman asked. 

          Daenerys picked out a slice of blood orange. “When I was presented to the Dosh Khaleen in Vaes Dothrak, I was given a stallion’s heart, still warm from its chest, and told to eat it. Walking into the throne room while the High Septon drones on will be far easier.” 

          Taena stilled, her spoon halfway to her mouth. A stallion’s heart. “And did you, Your Grace?” she asked smoothly. 

          The queen swallowed the tart fruit before answering. “I did. I wouldn’t recommend it. Far too tough to eat raw under any other circumstances.” 

          She’d eaten a stallion’s heart. Their queen, who looked little more than a girl, had eaten a stallion’s heart raw, still warm from its breast. Her estimation of her rose. “May I ask why?” she asked, taking her first bite of stew. Her eyes watered almost immediately, and she could have sighed. 

          Daenerys launched into an explanation of Dothraki custom, and Taena pictured the warriors that walked the Red Keep and hunted the countryside for bandits. They seemed tame, but the Myrishwoman knew the Dothraki. They were savages to their very hearts. 

          “It must have been frightening,” Tyene said once Daenerys finished, her slender fingers curled around her spoon. 

          The queen shook her head. “It was…exhilarating,” she smiled fondly, her eyes far away. “Everyone cheered once it was done. Cheered for me. Not my husband or my brother, but for me and the child I carried.” 

          She sobered, and Taena ached with an answering sadness. Twice before her Russel was born, she lost babes; a girl-child a year into her marriage and another too soon to discern its sex. “And they cheer for you still, Your Grace,” she said, reaching across the table to lay a hand on the queen’s wrist. 

          Daenerys gave her hand a brief glance but did not pull away. 

          They finished breaking their fast as a bevy of maids hauled buckets of steaming water into the bathing chamber. The hotter the better, she heard from the servants. Their queen never waited for the water to cool, she entered her bath without flinching once the last bucket was poured. Once the last exited the queen excused herself, to bathe alone as was her custom. She, Tyene, and Missandei busied themselves preparing the queen’s toilette, a complex affair given the day’s events. 

          Daenerys emerged shortly, skin wet but not flush, and they went to work, readying her for the day. She was not timid about her body in stark contrast to Westerosi women, that much she made known from the beginning. The Targaryen dressed and undressed with the assurance that she would not be molested. That was not to say she did so no matter who was in the room. So far, she had yet to appear naked before her Hand or Spymaster, the only two men allowed so far into her private chambers aside from the Unsullied, but she was not averse to being seen in nothing more than a thin robe. 

          Carrying a child left little sign on the young queen, Taena noted as she slid into a thin linen shift. A slight paunch to her stomach that could be blamed on rich food if one did not notice the faint tracery of silver on the flesh. Her breasts were still firm and high, her skin otherwise smooth. Beautiful, she thought, hands lingering but not overmuch. She played her fingers through the long, thick hair before Missandei appeared and began separating the strands, nimble fingers weaving thin braids and bells into the pale mass. 

          Taena turned away to see Tyene watching her, normally indolent dark eyes sharp and assessing. She raised an eyebrow and the girl blushed, red staining her golden cheeks and spreading across her nose and chin. “Lady Merryweather,” she near squeaked, backing away slightly. 

          _Interesting._ “Lady Sand.” 

          For the rest of the morning, she watched as Tyene tried to be subtle in the glances she sent her way, meeting each with a smile that made that delightful blush spread down the girl’s neck and stain her shoulders. Once, and only once, Missandei looked between them, expression still, before returning her attention back to lacing Daenerys into her gown. 

          

          _Twenty three._

          _The number played in her head to the tune of the pipers that announced her arrival at the throne room. It overrode the words spoken by the High Septon as she strode down its length, her steps measured as a woman going to the gallows._

          _Twenty three._

          _Twenty-three years of exile. The vast majority of that spent abandoned by all but Viserys as he slipped further and further into the madness that haunted her family followed by the few precious months she had with Drogo. She did not think of their beginning. Those memories were too harsh, too terrible. She thought of the months they spent when they began to understand each other. When she discovered the power she held instead of cowering before his. The tearing pain of being tricked by Mirri Maz Durr, losing her son and her Sun and Stars both. The months lost to the Red Waste where death haunted her every step and those that followed her fell to thirst and starvation. Qarth, Astapor, Yunkai, Meereen. War and death, pain and loss. Twenty-three years leading to this moment._

          _Beneath her heavy finery, she was almost hot, the sensation foreign after months spent living with the Westerosi winter. The gown she wore was both far simpler and more complex than those she favored for court. Though she disliked the structured undergarments worn by Westerosi women, they were necessary to produce the desired look; cinching in her waist and smoothing the line of her torso. Her gown was the deepest black, the material sewn in such a way at her shoulders and down her arms that it resembled the scales of her children, t tip of each scale bearing a small red bead so she appeared to glitter as she walked. The pattern continued over the bodice, the scales cupping her breasts and running down her sides before fading into the full skirt._

          _Over her gown, she wore a heavy robe of black velvet, a three-headed dragon embroidered on the train that spread behind her. The Targaryen dragon was picked out in silk embroidery bold as blood, the eyes of each dragon a pearl the size of a thumbnail, its claws rendered in cloth-of-silver. An ostentatious display of wealth and a sign to her noblemen that the crown wasn’t as poor as they most likely suspected. They would have to pick the pearls out to bolster the Crown’s coffers once the affair was done._

          _Her hair was loose, the sole concession to Dothraki tradition a collection of loose braids no thicker than her smallest finger, each decorated with a silver bell. She wore no other adornment save her mother’s ring, polished to reveal the pure gold beneath, setting empty. Once she dreamed of filling it with a ruby as Viserys claimed it was when her mother wore it, perhaps an emerald or diamond. Now she planned to leave it empty as a reminder of the long journey to her throne._

          _Daenerys climbed the dais and stopped before the Iron Throne. The throne forged by Aegon himself. Three hundred years of Targaryen rule was held in its melted steel. She turned and sat, her spine ramrod straight as Missandei arranged the heavy train of the robe just so. In her periphery, the carved box that held her crown, carried by Grey Worm, gleamed in the candlelight._

          _She remembered the expression on Lord Langward’s face when he first saw her crown. Perhaps he imagined something ostentatious: all dragons and jewels, wings and fangs. She needed no such gaudy reminders of who she was. Her crown was silver wound through with slender tendrils of Valyrian steel. The filigree band held cabochon rubies, one for each of her kingdoms and only if one looked closely could they see the dragon curled around each setting. It was delicate; a pretty bauble but the metal of her people made it stronger than it appeared._

          _“I hereby proclaim you Daenerys Targaryen, First of Your Name. Queen of the Rohynar, the Andals, and the First Men. Protector of the Realm. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”_

          _The slight weight settled on her head, and the world snapped into focus. For the first time, she took stock of the crowd of lords and ladies that filled the throne room and the gallery above, the rustle of cloth as they bowed before her. The High Septon offered his hand, and she stood, taking in her subjects. “My lords, my ladies, rise.”_

          Daenerys looked out over the nobility that gathered in the Great Hall after her coronation. The high table on its raised dais was separate enough from the general revelry that she didn’t feel crowded by the lesser nobility that filled the considerable space. Even the least of the nobility answered her summons once she made known her intention to be crowned within the week. A few looked well-worn, the dust of travel still on their clothes, but she paid it no mind. That they were willing to make the journey on such scant notice was more than enough.

Trestle tables lined both sides of the hall, filled with stewed meats and vegetables, pottages and fresh-baked bread; all the bounty she would allow considering the state of her country. There would be no seventy-seven courses as there was at the marriage of Joffrey and Margaery, and certainly nothing like the seven days of revelry that marked the ascension of Robert Baratheon and his queen. Her courtiers may not have appreciated the frugality of the banquet, but their concerns were voiced well away from her and from any who would report them. 

          “I’m surprised at you,” Olenna Tyrell picked delicately at a plate of cheese. “Cobbling something like this together on such short notice. Today should be your triumph, not this sorry affair. Highgarden could have supplied you enough for a feast worthy of your name, had you but asked.” 

          It was not the first time in the hours since the revelries began that the Lady of Highgarden expressed her displeasure. “Highgarden has already done more than enough for my rule,” Daenerys countered. “We’ve enough variety on the tables for the lords to enjoy themselves, Lady Tyrell.” 

          Among the bounty of roasted aurochs and fowl, soups and stews, there were foods she was certain many of the Weseterosi lords had never heard of, let alone tried to provide novelty. Ferried from the shores of Essos as a not so subtle reminder of her beginnings. Dried, of course, to survive the journey across the Narrows. 

          “Your suitors will kill each other sampling the spiced meats if you don’t put a stop to their foolishness,” Nymeria said through a smile, tilting her glass in the direction of a smaller table where an array of spiced foods was laid out. 

          Daenerys sighed. The table was meant for the Dothraki who wished to attend, though they found Westerosi food bland at the best of times. What few of her khalasar lowered themselves to attend her feast watched the young lords as they coughed and wheezed around mouthfuls of spiced goat, rabbit, and fish before trying to drown their tongues in wine. She watched as one of her bloodriders stood, snatched up a handful of spiced goat, chewed and swallowed without so much as a flinch before strolling away. Weak, she could not help the thought that skittered across her mind. 

          “Men,” Obara muttered. 

          “Boys,” Olenna corrected. “One day, I hope you learn to discern the difference.” She turned back to Daenerys. “And how long do you plan to remain here? I'm sure the Dothraki have plans to celebrate your ascension.” 

          “Another hour or so.” The moon would be high enough by then for the celebrations of her khalasar to start in earnest. She would have to change out of her gown and into something more comfortable. 

          Ellaria gave her a speculative look. “I have wondered how Dothraki celebrate. Rumor has it they are lusty people.” 

          “A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is a dull affair,” Daenerys recalled her own wedding and the strangeness of it all. Five men lost their lives before she and Drogo rode away from the khalasar. “Fighting, sex, death, nothing is hidden away by them. They feel no shame in such things.” 

          “Would that we were all so free,” Ellaria lifted her glass. 

          Daenerys turned to the older woman. “You are welcome to join me, Lady Ellaria. Perhaps a night under the stars will be a welcome respite?” But how would Ellaria respond to the Dothraki? 

          “Lord Tarly.” 

          The title, spoken in Olenna’s sharp tone made Daenerys focused on the two men who approached. 

          Lord Randyll Tarly was a bald man of some years, with the straight bearing she was swiftly coming to associate with lords who spent at least part of their time leading their men instead of allowing others to do so. His clothing was similar to those of her Crownland lords but just different enough; his doublet and sash were made of fine leather instead of velvet. He offered a slight nod of his head to Olenna before bowing deeply before her, his son mirroring the gesture. “We are at your service, Your Grace.” 

          “I thank you for coming, Lord Tarly.” Daenerys kept her tone congenial. “Lady Olenna has spoken highly of both you and your son.” 

          “Finished dealing with the rabble, have you?” Olenna asked, her tone almost mocking. 

          Tarly’s cold stare went to his liege. “The Reach is secured my Lady, Your Grace.” His gaze went to Ellaria and her daughters. “Though there are other issues that remain to be addressed.” 

          His words struck a chill down her spine. The lord’s expression was severe, his tone hollow. 

          Ellaria shifted at her side. “Do my countrymen make you nervous, Lord Tarly?” she purred. 

          Lord Tarly disregarded her question and turned to the young man who stood a step behind him. “May I introduce my son and heir, Dickon Tarly.” 

          Dickon Tarly stepped forward. He was taller than his father, his reddish-brown hair cut in a severe style. He was broad-shouldered, with the same military bearing as his father. “Your Grace.” 

          She smiled, hoping to dispel the tension she could feel building. “Be welcome, both of you, to King’s Landing.” 

          Tarly’s eyes continued to wander before focusing just beyond her. “In truth, my men feared we would have to fight through to the capital. The Dothraki have claimed much of the lands to the west as their own. Some have ventured into the Reach itself.” 

          Daenerys raised an eyebrow. “Surely the roads remain unblocked?” 

          His gaze returned to her. “They do.” 

          She smiled, but it was drained of warmth. “Then there is no reason for conflict. The Dothraki need spread out for the grazing of their horses.” 

          _“This man speaks words into the wind, Khaleesi,”_ Rakaro near spat the words. _“His mouth says one thing, but he means another.”_

          Lord Tarly’s harsh gaze fixed on her guard. “What does he say?” 

          She gave her blandest smile. “I’m afraid the ways of Westeros are still lost on the Dothraki, Lord Tarly.” Though she couldn’t help but agree with his assessment. 

          “Savages.” Tarly spat the word. 

          Daenerys lifted a hand when Rakaro stepped forward, hand on his arak. The Westerosi assumed the Dothraki were ignorant of their ire because they did not speak the language. She had yet to tell them many understood the Western Tongue well enough, they simply chose not to speak it. That they considered it barbaric and ill-fitted, lacking the necessary nuance to properly communicate. Certainly, those she elected to guard her in the Red Keep were fluent enough. 

          “Savages that have dedicated themselves to my cause. That risk life and limb to hunt down brigands that made the Crownlands their home for far too long.” She gave him a hard stare. “Troubles that the Reach has largely remained free of, from my understanding.” 

          Lord Tarly straightened. “The Reach maintains order in its people, Your Grace.” 

          “And Lady Olenna informs me that is in large part thanks to your efforts.” Her eyes cut to Dickon. The younger man stood at attention; a statue made of flesh. “Yours and your son’s. If Dothraki have ventured as far as the Reach, they were no doubt chasing down those who thought to escape my justice.” She breathed deeply. “Please, enjoy the hospitality of the Crown.” 

          The edge to her voice did not go unnoticed. Tarly bowed again. “Your Grace.” 

          “Odious man,” Olenna said once Tarly and his son were out of earshot. “Small-minded, but useful.” 

          Daenerys reached for her wine. “Manageable, I trust?” 

          “My dear, the day I can’t handle Randyll Tarly or his dimwitted offspring is the day I give up Highgarden.” 

          She turned to Olenna. The Lady of Highgarden’s features were soft, but her eyes glittered, ever moving. Daenerys raised her goblet. “To that day being far from now, Lady Olenna.” 

          A movement to her right drew her out of her musings. Missandei emerged from the collection of waiting servants, resplendent in red and black brocade, Grey Worm her silent shadow. “The celebrations in the city are progressing well, Your Grace,” she reported. “We may even have pots left over for tomorrow.” 

          Daenerys nodded. “Good.” The people of King’s Landing were not fed on roasted meats and rare fruits as her lords were, but the bowls of hearty soup were fortified with bones and poorer pieces of meat from the slaughter, the loaves of bread sweetened with honey. It was as risk, allowing so much of their stores to be given over to this feast, but she wanted her people to be well-fed at least this night. “And has there been any violence?” 

          “No, Your Grace. Nothing out of the ordinary. The patrols have reported regularly.” 

          She squeezed her friend’s hand. “Would you join us, Missandei? Grey Worm? You’ve earned some respite from your duties. More than earned.” She gestured for a servant to pour a goblet of honeyed water, knowing her friends’ aversion to wine. 

          Another half-hour passed in which Ellaria vanished into the crowd followed by her daughters, leaving her mostly alone at the High Table. Not that she minded. Daenerys recognized the political maneuvers being made in her name. Tyrion vanished near an hour before with who she believed was the representative from the Vale, and Varys disappeared before that. Olenna now held court at the other end of the table with the gathered nobility from the Reach. Next to his father, Dickon Tarly cast her several glances, though he never rose to approach. This was less a celebration of her triumph than a drawing of lines in the sand; lines that she would have to learn before deciding which she would honor. 

          “Are you well, My Queen?” 

          The soft words, spoken so close to her, would have made her pull away if she were not used to such things. She turned to meet jade eyes that, if she were to convince herself, she would believe were full of concern. 

          From the moment he arrived at court, Daven Lannister behaved as a courtier and a reveler at turns. He was strangely reserved at times, acting with all the pomp she came to associate with Westeorsi nobility, and at others uninhibited, almost shamelessly so. It was a sentiment that was echoed in Tyrion. Perhaps a Westerland affectation, or at least a Lannister one. The acting Lord of Casterly Rock spoke his mind and was almost unflinchingly honest the few time she solicited his opinion, and never rescinded an opinion once it was given. He was swiftly becoming her favorite at court. 

          “Yes,” she answered, hands going to her goblet as she cast her eyes on the assembled lords. More than a few cut assessing glances at the High Table, and she had no illusions that they wondered how best to maneuver themselves to find themselves beside her. 

          A callused hand settled close to hers once she set her goblet down. “They are sheep, Khaleesi.” The honorific was clumsy on his tongue. “They wonder how best to capture a dragon, or how to keep her fire from burning them to a cinder.” 

          She turned neutral eyes to him. Daven Lannister really was too pretty by half. His hair was nearly as long as a Dothraki, though he kept it pulled back at functions, his beard full and golden. Tyrion explained that the man swore an oath that he would cut neither until the man who killed his father on the battlefield was killed by his own hand. The vagaries of war prevented him from doing so, and he let his hair and beard grow in honor of the oath he made that would never be fulfilled. “And do you, Lord Lannister?” she asked, wine making her tongue loose. 

          Daven smiled at her, guileless. “I do not fear your fire, Your Grace.” He leaned back, settling himself into the chair stolen from Tyrion. 

          During the second hour of the limited feast, the doors of the ballroom opened a lone figure strode in among her lords. His hair was still white and in a marital cut. The armor he wore in the style he asked she commission for him what felt like a lifetime ago now. When she stood, the musicians stopped their rendition of The Dragon’s Triumph, the hall falling silent. 

          He looked well. 

          Ser Barristan Selmy looked far better than he did when she left him in Meereen. His color was that of the man who swore himself to her on the docks of Astapor; not swarthy, but with the rosy hue of health. He held himself stiffly, and she recalled the warning of the Blue Graces that he might never recover the grace he once held. Still, seeing him there, striding towards her tall and strong, was more balm to her soul than all seven kingdoms laid at her feet. 

          Daenerys was moving before she could remember how; wine threatening to make her steps unsteady, but it would do for a queen to be seen stumbling from too much drink. When she stopped in front of Ser Barristan her cheeks felt ready to burst from trying not to smile. 

          “I did not think you would arrive in time,” she said, her voice echoing through the hall. 

          Ser Barristan gave her the slightest smile. “In truth, neither did I, Your Grace.” 

          “I am overjoyed you are here.” Her hands itched to trace the etchings on his armor. To ensure he stood before her and that she wasn’t lost in some dream. If they were alone, she would have, but she could not be so informal before the assembled court unless she wanted gossip to run rampant. 

          He looked up, eyes searching the crowd. “Ser Jorah?” 

          Some of the joy went out of her at his question. “Has not been seen in months,” she answered, voice guarded and calm. 

          Not since she sent him on his quest. Perhaps it was for the best the man remained gone, though her heart would never admit to such a thing. Despite everything that passed between them, she refused to think of him dying somewhere, forgotten and alone. 

          Barristan closed his eyes and knelt, suppressing a wince as the muscles of his back strained; aware of the many eyes observing them and focused on not appearing weak. “It would be my honor to once again serve as a member of your Queensguard, Your Grace,” he said formally, head bowed. “My blade is yours. My life is yours, from this day until my last day.” 

          Whispers pressed in around them. 

          “Though Cersei Lannister and her son would have the kingdoms believe the vows of the Kingsguard are thin things, I subscribe to no such belief, Ser Barristan.” Her voice was pitched to carry through the throne room. “Your vows were spoken before the White Bull, Ser Gerold Hightower, and except for the direst of circumstances were always meant to be for life.” Her fingers brushed his shoulder. “Rise, Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of my Queensguard.”

* * *

          King’s Landing was alight. 

          The lamplighters made sure every post and brazier was lit at dusk to celebrate the ascension of Daenerys Targaryen. At least, those that lined the main streets were. The Great Square was filled with people waiting for the food so generously offered by the Dragon Queen. Wine, mead, and beer were available for those with the coin. If she squinted, she could pretend that it was years ago when she was another orphan sleeping in doorways or wherever she could lay her head without being shooed away or robbed, but she had no desire to squint. 

          She watched. 

          Her prey moved quickly through the streets chewing the last of his trencher, broad-shouldered and sure of himself. In that, he hadn’t changed much since she last saw him. He was always aware of his strength and aware of how others perceived it. She smiled as she remembered his threat to Hot Pie, that he would hammer the boy the way he did the steel at his forge. The way the baker’s boy paled and scurried away, leaving them alone. 

          It was an accident, really, seeing him again. She never thought she’d find something in the capital worthwhile aside from Cersei’s death. The capital was nothing to her but a hunting ground, and once she killed those who needed killing, she would move on. 

          She remembered his claim that he worked on the Street of Steel before being sold to the Night’s Watch, but that wasn’t where he worked now. The blacksmith plied his trade out of a tattered tent at the edges of the Street of Needles, hammering out horseshoes and mending pots. His hair was shorn, his face clean-shaven, but she recognized him. Gendry. 

          She almost ran to him, then. Wanted nothing more than to let him know that she was alive, but the heady sensation died in her chest the moment her foot left the ground. She was not Arry, an orphan sold to the Black Brothers. She wasn’t the Ghost of Harrenhall, pointing Death in the direction of her enemies, nor the would-be princess who wanted him to be her family. 

          Instead, she focused on removing names, but so many names were lost from her list. Joffrey’s death at another’s hand was her greatest disappointment. She wanted to watch the life drain from him since she was a girl with little understanding of what it would truly mean to kill. Wanted to watch as his green eyes widened, and his breath stopped. For Mycah, her only friend on the long road to King’s Landing. For Nymeria, who did nothing but protect her and for Sansa’s Lady, the sweetest and gentlest of their wolves who never growled or barked. For her father, who did nothing but be a good man, only to meet his end on the blade of his own sword. It was said the boy king died terribly, poisoned at his wedding by Sansa (and oh, how she hoped it was true), choking and gasping for air as he clawed at his throat. 

          Cersei she left to her fate once she discovered what the Dragon Queen planned. A trial would lay the former queen bare, expose her lies and show the woman just how powerless she was beneath her silks and fine linens. She was half-wild already when Arya went to her in her room, ready to die but too much of a coward to take her own life. She was tempted to end her then. To do as she dreamed and watch her eyes empty, but she stayed her hand. Cersei Lannister would receive no gift from a Stark, not even that of death. 

          Illyn Payne, she found in a tavern drinking away whatever sorrows he felt for losing his position as Court Executioner a day before she visited the former queen. He didn’t recognize her, though she wore her own face. Arya Stark wasn’t a princess-to-be like her sister, so no one cared to note the appearance of Eddard Stark’s youngest daughter. Certainly not enough to recognize her after years. She followed him through the dimly lit streets once he stumbled away from the tables, the whistle of her father’s sword as it cut through air whispering in her ears. 

          She cut his head off with a short-handled ax she carried with her from the Twins and left both on what remained of the steps of Baelor. 

          Her days in the capital began to blur together as she waited for Cersei’s trial. Some days she was Arral, her true face hidden behind blunt features and dark eyes. A bastard version of Cat who sold clams and cockles dug up from the early morning sands. She traded them for bread and dried fruit, the currency that ran the poorer sections of King’s Landing when she couldn’t get decent coin in the markets. Others she was little more than a ghost, trailing Gendry as he went about his business. There were times when he felt her and his shoulders would tense before he turned, but by the time he did so she was already lost in the crowd. 

          Most days, she was a cat. 

          The first time it happened she thought she was dreaming. Her world was smaller and so much larger; the sights, the smells that dragged at the roof of her mouth as she ran and leaped onto ledges. She could hear everything. It wasn’t until her paws caught in a puddle and she looked down into the reflection of large eyes and whiskers that she jolted awake with a gasp. It happened again a few nights later, and again when she snuck into a half-burnt house to nap. That time she used her body (small, compact, but so much stronger and nimble than she’d ever imagined) to find her sleeping form, and when she woke it was to see the black-striped tabby staring at her. 

          At first, he tried to shoo her away, cursing about her being burnt by stray embers or stepped on as he moved hot steel. A few days of her adamantly returning despite his raised voice he gave in and ignored her for the most part. She would curl in a corner, careful to stay out of his way, content. Twice he tried to feed her, but she turned up her nose at his offering of dried fish even as a part of her protested the lack of an easy meal. She followed Gendry as he made his way from the Great Square to his small room, nimble body jumping from balcony to beam. The streets darkened as they traveled, the crowds thinned, until he turned and climbed a pair of crumbling stairs. She waited, tail twitching until the window opened and she could leap through. 

          Gendry didn’t turn at the small thud she made, more than used to it now. 

          “Thought you’d be out snatching scraps,” Gendry said when she jumped onto a rough-hewn chair. “Or did the toms run you off?” 

          She sneezed and leaped onto the small table that held the room’s single candle. The tabby’s stomach was full, no doubt from earlier scavenging. Her flank still burned from where another cat managed to dig its claws into her days ago. 

          He huffed a quiet laugh. “You know, you remind me of someone.” 

          In answer she settled further onto the table, stretching out on her side. 

          The blacksmith reached out, and she ducked her head with a silent hiss. No matter what he thought she was, she wasn’t his pet. 

          “Fine, fine.” Gendry blew out the candle before he trundled to his bed and flopped down. It was the same routine he followed since she found him: work, eating what food could be bought with his meager coin if he didn’t have something wrapped and waiting at home, then coming here and washing the soot from the day off before falling into bed. Soon enough, his breathing evened out into sleep. 

          She rose from her careful sprawl and made the short jump from the table to his bed, small feet hardly making a dint on the hard mattress. 

* * *

          The Dothraki camp did not abut the walls of King’s Landing. The horse lords understood warfare and siege too well for such things. Instead, the main camp was perhaps half a mile away, stretched out over the undulating hills to the southwest. When she saw the sprawl of tents, she reigned in her Golden and stared. Bonfires burned against the darkness, the music of drums and zithers carrying on the wind. The air was not right; it was too cold and wet, the scent of the sea still heavy on the air, but for a moment felt she was back on the Dothraki sea. 

          Here the Westerosi dared not venture without escort, and she could be free. 

          _“Khaleesi?”_ Yaro questioned as he reined in beside her. 

          In answer, she spurred her horse. 

          She rode unchallenged into the camp, her silver hair, carefully braided and belled, all the identification her people needed. Her arrival was met with screams and shouts of joy. She dismounted before the last of her guards were at the corral, grateful for the freedom of her new clothing. The trousers were far better suited for riding than her skirts and provided better protection against the wind. Her rabbit fur-lined cloak was slashed with blue at the shoulders, and beneath it, she wore nothing but a simple linen shift and woolen shirt. 

          Daenerys waited for the Westerosi to dismount before striding towards the center of the camp, where the main celebrations would be held. There, she found a rough platform lined with animal furs and surrounded by platters of roasted meat, bread, and pitchers of drink. The sounds of celebration dimmed, her people looking to her. _“The Westerosi have named me their Khalessi!”_ Daenerys lifted a rough horn of mare’s milk high, and her khalasar followed suit with shouts of joy. 

          _“And which of their false gods will we take to Vaes Dothrak?”_ The shout came from the back of the crowd but echoed to the front on several voices. 

          She felt her smile slip. _“The temple to the gods of the Andals was destroyed before our coming,”_ she explained. _“The Great Stallion tore it from the earth in a pillar of green fire that reached the heavens.”_

          A low murmur went up at her words. When she toured the city several members of the khalasar were with her, and she translated Varys’s words for them. Of how Cersei used wildfire to destroy the Great Sept, and how nothing remained of the building but the melted edges of a pit surrounded by devastation. 

          She thought of the statue in the garden on Dragonstone. Aegon’s garden, the servants called it. The great stone dragon may have stood there since the outpost was built. _“There is a god on Dragonstone. One who stands in a temple open to the sky. That shall be the false god taken back to Vaes Dothrak,”_ she declared as her heart clenched, and a roar of approval went up among the Dothraki. She covered her discomfort by drinking deeply. _“Eat! Drink!”_ She sat, eyes watching the heaving crowd around her as she forced herself to take another swallow of the fermented mare’s milk. 

          “The Andals would shit themselves if they could see you now,” Ellaria near laughed the words as she reclined next to her, her heavy jacket a sprawl of brilliant color on the sable furs. Obara stood close by, spear at the ready. She reached over and picked out a strip of roasted meat before turning her dark eyes to the celebrations. A trio of women separated themselves from the crowd and began to dance around the fire before them. They wore thick trousers and shirts against the cold, the sinuous movements of their hips accentuated by heavy belts. “Do you dance as they do?” 

          Daenerys smiled as the women fell into a complicated rhythm. “I never learned.” It wasn’t strictly true. Dothraki women were taught their dances from girlhood, each considered a rite of passage. Once she carried Drogo’s child Irri and Jhiqui would spend hours with her, teaching her a dance that would have made her blush months before, but they promised would make her muscles stronger and better serve her during birth. 

          Ellaria gave her a slow smile in return. “Truly?” 

          She refused to answer and instead plucked a piece of wine-soaked fruit from a bowl. 

          The Dothraki celebrated late into the night, and Daenerys found herself wishing she could retreat to the tent that towered over the others before the largest bonfire, the tent set up for their Khaleesi. She soothed the desire by drinking more than her share of mare’s milk and sampling the collection of dishes cooked by her people. Most were familiar, but some were improvised from what could be found or bartered from the Westerosi. 

          Each time one of the khalasar approached, she could feel Barristan tense behind her. She greeted each with warm words in their harsh tongue. When Ellaria rose from her place and ventured with Obara further into the celebrations she bid two of her bloodriders to follow with a wave of her hand. Their presence would ensure that the two Dornishwomen would find no danger among the tents. Her company departed, she focused on watching, affecting a demeanor she remembered well from Drogo. 

          “Are you well, Your Grace?” 

          The question caught her off guard. She turned to see her Lord Commander closer than he was before, his hand settled on the pommel of his sword as his eyes swept the crowd. 

          This was a part of her the noble knight had never seen. A part of her she buried with her husband on the Dothraki sea and never thought to see resurrected. “I am well, Ser,” she reassured him, looking out over the throng. “You need not fear. No one here would harm me.” 

          His expression didn’t falter at her assurance. “A man was gutted in front of you, Your Grace.” 

          “That was…unfortunate.” She grimaced, recalling the events of the last hour. “He challenged Uno for his woman,” she explained. “Challenges among the Dothraki are to death. He knew, and still, he did so.” Had the woman seemed in distress she would have called an end to it, but she seemed more vexed their rutting was interrupted than anything else and went willingly with Uno once the challenger was dealt with. “The Dothraki have their own customs. I would no more force them to conform to Westerosi norms than I would demand you learn to fight with an arak instead of your sword.” A giggle escaped her at the image that presented. 

          “You are drunk, Your Grace.” She could hear the frown in his voice. 

          “I am.” She lifted a hand. The clouds overhead were thick and broken, and moonlight shone through. She was not overly drunk, but more than she expected. The women explained that they were able to further refine the mare’s milk because of the cold to something stronger. It still tasted of cheese but was thinner and clearer than what was drunk on the Dothraki Sea. 

          “Perhaps it is time you retired to the Red Keep.” 

          She could feel the tension in the man at her back. “You do not trust them.” 

          “You are young, beautiful, and a queen. A man would see you as a conquest for any one those things.” 

          “Khal Drogo was my husband.” His name rolled on her tongue. After so many years mentioning her sun and stars only brought a dull ache, the memory of pain. “Is my husband, to the Dothraki. The Great Stallion curses any man who takes another khal’s wife to bed willing or not. No Dothraki will risk his manhood for that. It is known.” 

          She was planning how best to return to the Red Keep when the screeches of her children carried overhead. Silver moonlight danced over Drogon’s scales and turned Rhaegal’s brilliant emerald as they circled overhead. All the knights save Ser Barristan ducked down as Rhaegal swooped low enough for his passage to send the bonfires dancing. The Dothraki screamed in delight, unafraid of her children. Her strength was their strength. 

          She turned to her guards. “It seems my children call me home, ser,” she informed them slowly before addressing her bloodriders. _“Go, feast, drink. Drogon and Rhaegal will see me back to the stone city.”_ She knew better than to invoke her knights. The Dothraki considered them almost as useless as a pregnant mare in battle, though that sentiment was slowly changing. 

          As she descended and made her way through the camp the drums and zithers went silent. Those that remained crowded close enough that she heard one of her knights let out a curse. 

          “What are they doing, Your Grace?” Barristan asked, tone cordial. 

          “Their Khalessi is leaving them,” she explained. “It is not a thing to be celebrated. They will follow us until we are outside the borders of the khalassar.” 

          The journey could not happen swift enough, the tension of the Westerosi playing on her already worn nerves, and she swung onto her Golden and spurred her horse without waiting for the last of her men to find their seat. Once she passed the two bonfires that marked the outer reaches of the camp cries went up, the distant beat of drums soon following. 

  

          _Red eyes._

          _They were the only thing she could focus on in the wailing white that surrounded her, pressing her dress to her body and stuttering her breath in her lungs. She’d never been this cold, never imagined she could be even in the darkest nights on the Dothraki Sea. She turned, hoping to find shelter but there was only solid white at her back, immovable and radiating a cold somehow worse than what was before her. Daenerys turned back and there they were; eyes the color of rubies. They moved; now close, now distant. Vanishing, only to reappear._

          _With halting steps, she moved closer, careful of her footing lest she fall, sure the whiteness around her hid daggers sharp and poised for her heart. Between one instant and the next, she lost her bearings. She turned, searching for the eyes that lured her into the heart of the maelstrom, but they were gone._

          Lost. I am lost. _The thought she would be lost forever in this unforgiving place forced air from her, made her run, frantic, uncaring of the danger. There had to be something, some marker, some way for her to find a path back._

          _Between one step and the next, the storm quieted. Daenerys stared, her breath coming from her in billowing clouds. The sky above her was grey, the ground white. Fat, white flakes drifted slowly, suspended on the frigid air. The sudden quiet was deafening._

          _“Who are you?”_

          _Daenerys whirled. A boy stood before her, pale and drawn, wearing the clothes of a Westerosi. There was no challenge in his question, only curiosity. The cold retreated, leaving her skin prickling. “Daenerys,” she answered simply._

          _His gaze moved past her. “Oh.”_

          _Daenerys turned, confused at his dismissal, and gasped._

          _A wolf emerged from the whiteness, its great form, as white as the snow around it, padding towards her. It was nothing like the wolves she remembered from the Dothraki Sea. Its pelt was moon pale, body heavy and thickly furred. When she stepped backward it stopped, red eyes waiting. She turned, but the queer boy was gone._

          _A soft crunch shifted her attention back to the creature. It appeared to have taken a step forward but was otherwise still._ Waiting, _she realized. She stretched out her hand, palm up. With a dip of its great head, the wolf came closer. Once it was within reach, she stretched further, running a hand over its head. The fur was soft and warm, almost painfully so after the biting cold. The beast’s ears pricked up as he watched her, tongue lolling. It was far too massive, its nose brushing her chest where it stood. If it reared it would tower over her, tear her apart with the fangs revealed by its smile, but she was unafraid._ You wouldn’t hurt me, would you? _She wondered as her hand drifted down its back, fingers buried in its thick fur._

          _The animal’s ruby eyes flicked to hers, bare inches apart, and she gasped. There was something there. An intelligence more than what an animal should have. It reminded her of her children, the way they examined the unfamiliar with careful claws and curious eyes. It nosed forward, muzzle brushing past her cheek, huffing in great gulps of her scent._

          _There, in the distance, something moved._

          _Without warning the wolf whirled darting past her with a deep growl, its body poised to attack. The cold returned ten-fold, twenty, stinging her eyes and forcing her to her knees as the gale returned and snow struck at her, a thousand small daggers._

          _A screech sounded far away, almost inaudible and full of pain and loss, but she knew it as she knew her own heart. “Drogon?” she called. Her child was here, searching for her in the storm. “Drogon!”_

          Daenerys woke with bitter cold teasing her stomach, the name of her oldest child on her lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! I hope everyone is well and keeping safe during the insanity. 
> 
> I know, I keep promising that Dany and Jon are going to meet 'in two or three chapters', so... meeting! Kinda. They were supposed to meet this chapter, but then I had to go and write 14 pages of coronation nonsense. Promise, _things_ happen next chapter. Pinky swear. And it's gonna be a long chapter to boot.
> 
> I will catch up on responding to your reviews.
> 
> I've worked out that every 4 chapters or so comprise enough set pieces and dialogue to make an episode. So we're about a quarter way through a hypothetical Season 7 at this point. I'm sorry you've had to read to much to get here.
> 
> One of the missed opportunities of the show is showcasing Arya's warging abilities. Seriously, the girl is skilled in the books, capable of going to many different animals, including a cat. 
> 
> [ Randyll Tarly ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Randyll_Tarly)  
> [ Dickon Tarly ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Dickon_Tarly)  
> I imagine Daven Lannister looks very much like slightly younger, more golden [ Travis Fimmel ](https://i.redd.it/dgs0t85rx7c31.jpg). Seriously, google this man and bask in images of him during his modeling days.  
> [ Aegon's Garden ](https://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Dragonstone#Layout)  
> [ Trestle Table ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trestle_table)


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